[l'^/-^' 


^^gc. 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcliive 

in  2007  witli  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arGliive.org/details/bitsoftravelOOjaGkiala 


HELEN  JACKSON'S  LATEST  WORKS, 


RAMONA i2mo.  $1.50 

A    CENTURY    OF    DISHONOR    .     .  i2mo.  i-Sc 

ZEPH.     A  Posthumous  Story       .     .     .  i6mo.  i.2t 

GLIMPSES    OF   THREE    COASTS  .  i2mo.  1.50 

SONNETS   AND  LYRICS      ....  i6mo.  i.oo 
BETWEEN  WHILES:   A  Collection 

of  Stories      .    .     . ' i6mo.  1.25 

COMPLETE    POEMS i6mo.  1.50 

A    CALENDAR   OF   SONNETS    .     .  i2mo  2.00 

MERCY    PHILBRICK'S    CHOICE    .  i6mo.  i.oo 

HETTY'S    STRANGE  HISTORY     .  i6mo.  i.oo 


ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Publishers. 


v 


BITS   OF    TRAVEL. 


By  H.  H., 

author  of  "  verses,"    "  bits  of  talk  about  home  matters,' 
"bits  of  talk  for  young  folks,"  "bits  of  TRAVKL 

AT   HOME,"    AND   "NELLY's  SILVER   MINE." 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 

1895. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873, 

BY  JAMES   R.    OSGOOD   &  CO., 

in  tbk  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  Son, 
Cambriogb. 


STACK 
ANNEX 

F 


CONTENTS.         I^'^3 


♦ 

Paoi 

A  German  Landlady 1 

The  Valley  of  Gastein 34 

The  Ampezzo  Pass  and  the  House  of  the  Star 

OF  Gold 62 

A  May-Day  in  Albano 82 

An  Afternoon  in  Memoriam,  in  Salzburg     .  89 

The  Returned  Veterans'  Fest  in  Salzburg     .  95 

A  Morning  in  the  Etruscan  Museum  in  the 

Vatican 103 

Albano  Days Ill 

A  Sunday  Morning  in  Venice    ....  117 

The  Convent  of  San  Lazzaro,  in  Venice     .  124 

Encyclicals  of  a  Traveller       .        .        .        .131 


PREFATOEY  NOTE. 


I  AM  very  glad  that   the  many  friends  my  good 
Fraulein  has  made   for  herself  in  America    can 
now  see  her  face. 

I  have  only  recently  received  this  picture  with  its 
affectionate  greeting  in  her  delicious  broken  English, 
and  I  make  haste  to  share  the  pleasure  that  it  has 
given  me. 

H.  H. 
Nbwpoet,  R.  I.,  May  7,  1873. 


ILLUSTEATIONS 


A  German  Landlady         ....    Frontispieca. 
Valley  and  Village  of  Gastein.         .        .     Page   50 


A    GERMAN    LANDLADY. 


PART    I. 

IT  was  by  one  of  those  predestinations  which  men 
call  lucky  chances  that  I  came  to  know  the  Frau- 
lein  Hahlreiner.  An  idle  question  put  to  a  railway 
acquaintance,  and  in  a  moment  more  had  been  spoken 
the  name  which  will  stand  in  my  memory  forever,  call- 
ing up  a  picture  of  the  best,  dearest,  joUiest  landlady  in 
all  Germany. 

Up  two  such  flights  of  stairs  as  only  victims  of  mon- 
archies would  consent  to  climb  we  toiled  to  find  her. 
There  was  a  breeze  of  good  cheer  in  the  first  opening 
of  her  door. 

"  Is  the  Franlein  Hahlreiner  in  ?  " 

"I  are  she,"  laughed  out  of  the  broad  red  lips  and 
twinkled  in  the  pretty  brown  eyes.  The  rooms  were 
just  what  we  wanted.  Who  could  have  believed  that, 
while  we  were  journeying  sadly  away  from  beloved 
Tyrol,  there  stood  waiting  in  the  heart  of  Munich  just 
the  beds,  the  sunny  windows,  the  cheerful  parlor,  that 
would  fit  us?  The  readiness  of  one's  habitations  is  a 
perpetual  marvel  in  the  traveller's  life  .•  it  is  strange  we 
can  be  so  faithless  about  accommodations  in  the  next 

1  A 


2  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

world,  when  we  are  so  well  taken  care  of  in  this.  It 
took  few  words  to  make  our  bargain,  and  few  hours 
to  move  in ;  in  a  day  we  were  at  home,  and  the  big, 
motherly  Fraulein  understood  us  as  if  she  had  nursed 
us  in  our  cradles.  How  her  presence  pervaded  that 
whole  floor!  There  were  thirteen  rooms.  A  German 
baron  with  wife  and  two  children,  to  whom  he  whis- 
tled and  sang  and  shouted  twelve  hours  a  day,  like  a 
giant  bobolink  in  a  meadow,  had  some  of  the  rooms. 
Two  mysterious  Hungarian  women,  who  were  secret 
and  stately  and  still,  and  gave  dinners,  lived  on  the 
corner;  and  we  had  all  the  rest,  except  what  was 
kitchen,  or  cupboard,  or  the  Fraulein's  bedroom. 

It  is  wonderful  how  soon  it  seems  proper  to  have 
kitchen  opposite  parlor,  unknown  neighbors  the  other 
side  of  your  bedroom  wall,  dishes  washed  on  the  hall 
table,  and  charcoal  and  company  coming  in  at  same 
door.  When  we  learn  to  do  this  in  New  York,  there 
will  be  fewer  deaths  from  breaking  of  bloodvessels  in 
the  effort  to  be  respectable. 

No  artist  has  ever  taken  a  photograph  of  the  Frau- 
lein Hahlreiner  which  could  be  recognized.  Neither 
can  I  photograph  her.  I  can  say  that  she  was  five  feet 
seven  inches  high,  and  fat  to  the  degree  of  fatness 
which  Rubens  loved  to  paint ;  that  she  was  fifty-two 
years  old,  and  did  not  look  as  if  she  were  more  than 
forty  ;  that  she  had  hazel  brown  eyes,  perpetually 
laughing,  a  high  white  forehead,  two  dimples  in  her 
left  cheek  which  were  never  still,  and  hair,  as  fi-ee  as 
the  dimples,  too  long  to  be  called  short,  too  short  to  be 
called  long,  always  floating  back  m  the  air  as  she  oame 
towards  you  :  on  great  occasions  she  had  it  curled  by  a 
hair-dresser,  —  the  only  weakness  I  ever  discovered  in 
the  Fraulein ;  but  it  was  such  a  short-lived  one,  one 
easily  forgave  it,  for  the  curl  never  stayed  in  more  than 
two  hours.  I  can  say  that,  in  spite  of  her  fatness,  her 
step  was  elastic  and  light,  and  her  hands  and  feet  deli- 
cately shaped ;  I  can  say  that  her  broken  English  wa» 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  3 

the  most  deliciously  comic  and  effectively  eloquent  lan- 
guage I  have  ever  heard  spoken ;  I  can  say  that  she 
cooked  our  dinner  for  us  at  two,  went  shopping  for  or 
with  us  at  five,  threw  us  into  fits  of  laughter  at  eight 
by  some  unexpected  bit  of  mimicry  or  droll  story,  and 
then  tucked  us  up  at  bedtime  with  an  affectionate 
"  Good  night.  Sleep  well !  "  But  after  all  this  is  told, 
I  have  told  only  outside  truths,  and  given  little  sugges- 
tion of  the  charm  of  atmosphere  that  there  was  about 
our  dear  Fraulein  and  everything  she  did  or  said. 

The  Munich  days  went  by  too  quickly,  —  days  in  the 
Pinakothek,  days  in  the  Glyptothek,  days  in  the  Art 
Exposition,  with  its  two  thousand  pictures.  We  had 
climbed  into  the  head  of  the  statue  of  Bavaria,  roamed 
through  the  king's  chambers  at  the  Nyinphenburg,  seen 
one  hundred  thousand  men  on  the  Teresina  meadows, 
and  the  king  giving  prizes  for  the  horse-races;  and 
now  the  day  came  on  which  we  must  leave  Munich 
and  each  other. 

My  route  lay  to  the  north,  —  Nuremberg,  Rhine, 
Rotterdam,  London.  For  many  days  I  had  been  in 
search  of  a  maid  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  Rotterdam. 
The  voluble  Madame  Marksteller,  who  supports  a 
family  of  ten  children,  and  keeps  them  all  in  kid  gloves 
and  poodles  by  means  of  an  intelligence  office,  swept 
daily  into  my  room,  accompanied  by  applicants  of  all 
degrees  of  unsuitability.  It  grew  disheartening.  Finally 
I  was  reduced  to  the  choice  between  a  pretty  and 
young  woman,  who  would  go  with  me  only  on  condi- 
tion of  being  my  bosom  companion,  and  an  ugly  old 
woman,  who  was  a  simpleton.  In  this  crisis  I  ap- 
pealed to  the  Fraulein. 

"  Dear  Fraulein,  why  could  not  you  go  with  me 
to  Rotterdam  ?  " 

"  O  my  dear  lady,  you  make  me  go  to  be  like  fool,  to 
think  of  so  nice  journey,"  said  she,  clapping  one  hand 
to  her  head,  snapping  the  fingers  of  the  other,  and 
pirouetting  on  her  fat  legs. 


4  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

But  all  sorts  of  lions  were  in  the  way:  lodgers, 
whose  dinners  must  be  cooked. 

"  I  will  pay  the  wages  of  a  cook  to  take  your  place, 
my  Fraulein." 

A  country  cousin  was  coming  to  make  a  visit ;  a 
cousin  whom  she  had  not  seen  for  twenty-five  years. 
She  might  stay  a  week. 

"  Very  well.   I  will  wait  till  your  cousin's  visit  is  over." 

"  But,  my  lady,  I  fear  I  make  stupid  thing  for  you. 
I  knows  not  how  to  do  on  so  great  journey." 

"  Ha !  "  thought  I,  "  I  only  wish  I  were  as  safe  from 
stupidities  and  blunderings  for  the  rest  of  my  life  as  I 
shall  be  while  I  am  in  your  charge,  you  quick-witted, 
bright-eyed  old  dear  I  " 

The  country  cousin,  I  fear,  was  hurried  off  a  little 
sooner  than  she  liked. 

"  I  tell  she  she  must  go.  My  lady  cannot  wait  so 
long.  Six  days  in  Munich  are  enough  for  she,"  said 
the  Fraulein,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  which  it 
would  have  cut  the  country  cousin  to  the  heart  to  see. 

On  a  windy  noon,  such  as  only  Munich  knows,  we 
set  out  for  Nuremberg.  If  I  had  had  any  misgivings 
about  the  Fraulein's  capacity  as  courier,  they  would 
have  been  set  at  rest  in  the  first  half-hour  at  the  rail- 
road station.  It  was  evident  that  anything  she  did 
not  know  she  would  find  out  by  a  word  and  a  smile 
from  the  nearest  person :  all  wei*e  conciliated  the  min- 
ute they  looked  into  her  ruddy  face.  And  as  for  me, 
never  in  my  life  had  I  felt  so  well  presented  as  by  the 
affectionate  tone  in  which  she  said  "  My  lady." 

Trusting  to  Murray,  I  had  telegraphed  to  the  Wiir- 
temberger  Hof  for  rooms.  At  nine  o'clock  of  a  dark 
riight  the  German  crowd  in  the  Nuremberg  station 
lifted  up  its  voice,  and  said  there  was  no  Wiirtember- 
ger  Hof. 

"  There  must  be,"  said  I,  brandishing  my  red  Mur- 
ray, with  my  thumb  on  the  spot.  Crowd  chuckled, 
and  said  there  was  not. 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  5 

"  0  my  lady,  wait  you  here  while  I  go  and  see,"  said 
the  Fraulein,  bundling  me  into  a  chair  as  if  I  had  been 
a  baby.  Presently  she  came  back  with,  "  My  lady, 
she  do  not  exist  these  now  four  years,  the  Wiirtem- 
berger  Hof  We  go  to  the  Nuremberger  Hof,  which 
are  near,  and  he  have  our  telegram." 

Out  into  the  darkness  we  trudged,  following  a  small 
boy  with  a  glass  of  beer,  and  found,  as  the  Fraulein 
had  said,  that  the  Nuremberger  Hof  had  received  our 
telegram,  and  had  prepared  for  us  two  of  the  cleanest 
of  its  very  dirty  rooms.  How  well  I  came  to  know 
my  Fraulein  before  the  end  of  that  rainy  day  in  Nu- 
remberg I 

"  0  my  lady,  am  I  to  go  where  you  go  and  see  all  ?  *"' 
she  exclaimed  in  the  morning,  when  I  told  her  to  be 
ready  at  nine  to  drive  with  me.  "  0,  never  did  I  think 
to  see  so  much."  She  had  evidently  had  in  the  outset 
a  fear  that  she  would  see  little  except  at  the  railway 
stations  and  hotels.  She  little  knew  how  much  pleas- 
ure I  anticipated  in  her  companionship. 

They  are  cruel  who  tell  you  that  a  day  is  time  enough 
to  see  Nuremberg.  It  is  a  place  to  spend  two  weeks 
in ;  to  lounge  on  doorsteps,  and  peer  into  shadowy 
places;  to  study  old  stones  inch  by  inch,  and  grow 
slowly  wonted  to  all  its  sombre  picturesqueness. 

As  we  stood  looking  at  Peter  Vischer's  exquisite 
carvings  on  the  shrine  of  St.  Sebald's,  I  pointed  out  to 
the  Fraulein  the  bass-relief  representing  St.  Sebald's 
miracle  with  the  icicle.  She  looked  with  cold,  steady 
eyes  at  the  finely  chiselled  fire  which  was  represented 
curling  upward  from  the  little  pile  of  broken  icicle,  and 
then  said,  "  Do  you  believe,  my  lady  ?  " 

"  0  no,  Fraulein,"  said  I;  "  I  can't  quite  believe  that 
icicles  ever  made  so  good  a  fire  as  that,  even  for  a 
saint.     But  I  suppose  you  believe  it,  do  you  not  ?  " 

"  0  no,  I  not.  The  Church  ask  too  much  to  believe. 
If  one  would  believe  all,  one  cannot  do,"  said  she,  in  a 
tone  of  timidity  and  hesitation  quite  unusual  for  her; 


6  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

and  a  moment  later,  still  more  hesitatingly,  "  Have  you 
read  Kenan,  my  lady  ?  " 

I  started.  Was  this  my  German  landlady,  who 
spent  most  of  her  time  over  her  cooking-stove,  asking 
me  if  I  read  Renan  ?  "  Yes,"  I  said,  "  I  have  read 
most  of  his  books.     Have  you  ?  " 

"  0  yes,  and  I  like  so  much.  My  confessor  he  say 
he  no  more  give  me  — "  (here  she  halted :  the  long 
word  "  absolution  "  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she  made 
a  sweeping  gesture  of  benediction  to  indicate  it),  —  "  he 
no  more  give  me  —  so  —  if  I  not  put  away  that  book ; 
80  I  go  not  to  him,  now,  two  year,  because  I  will  not 
make  lie." 

"  But  then  you  are  excommunicated,  are  you  not,  if 
you  have  not  been  to  confession  for  two  years  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think,"  cheerily,  quite  reassured  now  that  I 
must  be  as  much  of  a  heretic  as  she,  since  I  too  read 
Renan ;  "  but  I  will  not  make  lie.  I  will  have  my 
Renan.  Then  I  read,  too,  the  book  against  Renan  ; 
and  he  say  St  Paul  say  this,  and  St.  Peter  say  the 
other,  but  he  go  not  to  my  heart.  I  love  the  Jesu 
Christ  more  by  Renan  as  in  what  the  Church  say  for 
him." 

Strange  enough  it  was  to  walk  through  the  still 
aisles  of  these  old  churches,  and,  looking  up  at  the 
dusty  stone  saints,  to  whom  incense  is  burned  no 
longer,  hear  this  simple  soul  repeat  over  and  over, 
with  great  emphasis,  "  I  love  the  Jesu  Christ  more 
by  Renan  as  in  what  the  Church  say  for  him." 

Then  we  went  down  into  the  old  dungeons  under 
the  Rathhaus,  through  chilly  winding  galleries,  into 
stone  chamber  after  stone  chamber,  rayless,  airless, 
pitiless,  awful.  The  Fraulein  grew  white  with  hor- 
ror. She  had  never  believed  the  stories  she  had 
read  of  torture-chambers  and  dungeons. 

"  Ach,  mein  Gott!  mein  GottI    and    this    is   what 

might  be  to-day  if  Father  had   the   way ;    and 

they  tell   us  we   lose   the  good   old   times.      I   will 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  7 

tell  to  all  peoples  I  know  I  have  seen  the  good  old 
times  under  the  ground  of  this  Niirnberg  !  " 

When  we  came  out  again  into  the  open  air,  she 
was  so  pale  I  feared  she  would  be  Ul.  She  sat  down 
trembling  on  the  stone  stairs,  and  drew  a  long 
breath :  "  Ach  Gott !  but  I  am  thanks  to  see  once 
more  the  overworld." 

It  was  almost  wicked,  after  this,  to  take  her  to  the 
still  worse  dungeons  under  the  city  walls,  which  are 
literally  hung  and  set  full  of  instruments  of  torture, 
and  in  the  last  of  which  is  kept  the  famous  Iron 
Virgin.  In  the  first  chambers  were  milder  instru- 
ments for  punishments  of  common  offences,  many  of 
which  have  been  used  in  Nuremberg  within  seventy 
years,  —  grotesque  masks  to  be  worn  on  the  street  by 
men  and  women  convicted  of  slanderous  speaking  ("  Ha, 
ha !  "  laughed  the  Fraulein,  "  there  could  not  be  made 
enough  such  masks  to  be  weared  in  Munich  " ) ;  and  a 
curious  oblong  board  with  a  round  hole  at  each  end, 
into  which  husbands  and  wives  who  quarrelled  were 
obhged  to  put  their  heads,  and  live  thus  yoked  for  days 
at  a  time.  This  pleased  the  Fraulein  greatly.  "  Think 
you,  my  lady,  this  would  be  good  ?  "  she  said,  sticking 
her  fat  fist  through  one  of  the  holes,  and  opening  and 
shutting  it,  —  "  think  you  they  would  love  theirselves 
(each  other)  more  ?  " 

But  her  smiles  soon  died  away,  and  she  was  paler 
than  in  the  Rathhaus  dungeons.  This  great  hearty 
woman,  usually  ruddy  as  a  frost-bitten  apple  in  De- 
cember, and  stronger  than  most  men,  grew  white  and 
trembling  at  the  first  look  at  the  horrible  instruments 
of  torture  with  which  the  other  chambers  wcjre  filled. 
Indeed,  it  was  a  sight  hard  to  bear, —  racks  and  wheels 
and  pulleys  and  weights  and  thumb-screws,  helmets 
and  cradles  and  chairs  set  thick  with  iron  spikes,  and 
at  last,  in  the  lowest  dungeon  of  all,  the  Iron  Virgin. 
I  held  the  poor  Fraulein's  hand.  For  the  minute  I  was 
the  protector,  and  not  she.     The  woman  who  was  our 


8  A   GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

guide  recited  her  story  with  such  glib  professional 
facility,  and  pulled  out  bars,  and  shoved  back  the 
doors,  and  showed  the  sharp  spikes,  all  with  such  a 
cheery  smile,  that  to  me  it  robbed  the  cruel  stone 
statue  of  much  of  its  atmosphere  of  the  horrible.  I 
even  felt  a  morbid  impulse  to  step  into  the  image's  em- 
brace and  let  the  spiked  doors  be  partly  shut  on  me ; 
but  for  the  Fraulein's  sake  I  forbore,  and  hurried  her 
out  as  quickly  as  possible  into  her  "  overworld." 

"  0,  never  would  I  live  in  this  Niirnberg,  my  lady," 
she  said ;  "  at  each  step  I  see  ghost ;  and  see  color  of 
that  water,"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  sluggish  river : 
"  it  are  black  with  the  old  sins." 

How  she  laughed  the  Nuremberg  jewellers  into  sell- 
ing me  oxidized  silver  cheaper  than  they  meant  to  1 
How  she  persuaded  the  stolid  Nuremberg  "  cocher  "  to 
drive  faster,  at  least  ten  times  faster,  than  was  his 
wont!  And  how,  most  marvellous  of  all,  she  con- 
vinced the  keeper  of  the  Nuremberg  cemetery  where 
Albert  Diirer  was  buried,  that  it  could  do  no  harm  for 
me  to  bring  away  a  big  bunch  of  bright  sumac  leaves 
from  one  of  the  trees !  I  should  as  soon  have  thought 
of  appealing  to  one  of  the  carved  Baumgartner  burgh- 
ers on  their  stone  slabs  to  give  me  permission ;  but  the 
Fraulein  was  too  much  for  the  keeper.  He  turned  his 
back,  so  as  not  to  seem  to  condone  the  offence,  and 
satisfied  his  conscience  by  calling  out,  "  Enough,  enough, 
you  have  taken  enough,"  several  times  before  we  were 
ready  to  stop  picking.  How  quickly  she  saw  and  how 
keenly  she  felt  the  best  things !  Not  a  line  of  Adam 
Kraft's  or  Peter  Vischer's  carving  was  lost  on  her. 
Not  a  single  picturesque  face  or  group  escaped  her. 
Much  more  I  saw,  in  that  one  day  of  Nuremberg,  for 
having  her  by  my  side ;  and  very  short  I  found  the 
next  day's  railroad  ride  to  Mayence,  by  help  of  her 
droll  comments  on  all  that  happened. 

Curled  up  in  one  corner  were  a  fat  old  Grerman  and 
his  wife,  and  opposite  them  an  officer  with  his  young 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  9 

bride.  The  officer  and  the  burgher  talked  incessantly 
with  great  vehemence.  I  saw  that  the  Fraulein  lis- 
tened with  keenest  attention ;  it  was  evidently  all  she 
could  do  to  keep  quiet.  At  the  first  opportunity  she 
said  to  me  :  — 

"  0  my  lady,  he  are  ultramontane,  the  fat  man  ;  he 
are  Senator;  they  talk  always  about  our  government. 
I  like  so  much  to  hear  what  they  say ;  but  the  fat  man, 
he  are  such  fool." 

The  Senator's  wife  looked  hke  a  man  in  woman's 
clothes,  —  hard-featured,  bony,  hideous.  As  night 
came  on  she  proceeded  to  make  her  toilet ;  she  took 
off  her  boots,  and  put  on  huge  worsted  shoes,  bound 
with  scarlet ;  on  her  head  she  put  a  knit  cap,  of 
cranberry  red;  above  that,  the  hood  of  her  gray 
waterproof;  above  all  this,  a  white  silk  handkerchief, 
tied  tight  under  her  chin ;  on  top  of  all,  her 
round  hat.  The  effect  was  like  nothing  in  earth 
but  a  great  woollen  gargoyle.  The  Senator  looked 
on  as  complacently  as  if  it  were  the  adorning  of 
Venus  herself. 

"  0  my  lady,  have  you  seen  what  she  make  for 
mouth  when  she  speak  ?  "  said  the  Fraulein.  I  had 
not,  for  we  were  on  the  same  side  of  the  carriage. 
"  My  lady,  you  must  see.  I  will  make  that  she  speak 
for  you,"  said  the  malicious  Fraulein,  drawing  nearer 
to  the  unsuspecting  victim,  and  asking  some  question 
in  the  friendliest  of  voices.  I  forgave  the  unchristian 
trick,  however,  at  sight  of  the  mouth  in  motion. 

After  the  Senator  and  the  officer  had  both  left 
the  carriage,  the  Fraulein  told  me  the  substance  of 
their  discussion ;  political  questions  seemed  familiar 
to  her ;  she  had  her  own  opinion  of  every  candidate ; 
and  0,  how  she  did  hate  the  ultramontanes !  "  0 
my  lady,  this  Senator  he  wish  to  have  for  president 
a  man  who  make  always  his  walk  backwards.  Never 
he  go  forwards." 

It  took  me  some  seconds  to  comprehend  that  this 


lO  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

was  tlie  Fraulein's  English  for  a  conservative,  tlie 
thing  she  hated  with  her  whole  heart. 

The  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  fields  and  woods. 
She  exclaimed  with  delight  at  each  new  mile :  "  O, 
how  I  like  to  see  smoke  go  up  from  house !  " 

"  0,  find  you  not  the  world  nice,  my  lady  ?  I  find 
so  nice,  I  could  kiss  the  world.  Always  people  say, 
this  world  are  bad  world.  The  world  are  good 
world.     It  are  mens  that  are  bad." 

Then  she  would  startle  me  again  by  farmer-like 
comments  on  the  country. 

"  0,  here  are  all  such  poor  wood  country  ;  I  would 
cut  down  such  poor  wood,  and  make  land  for  other 
thing. 

"  Now  begin  to  be  more  good  stone,  here. 

"  0  look,  my  lady,  what  nice  farm  with  much  mead- 
ow for  coos."  (Never  could  I  persuade  the  Fraulein 
to  say  cows.) 

At  last  I  said  to  her:  Fraulein,  you  talk  like  a 
farmer." 

"  Ach,  my  lady,"  and  her  face  grew  clouded,  "  1 
make  farm  for  eleven  year.  I  am  great  farmer.  That 
is  all  what  I  love.  0,  I  could  die,  some  time,  I 
such  hungry  have  for  my  beautiful  farm. " 

By  this  time  I  was  prepared  to  hear  that  my 
Fraulein  had  at  one  time  or  another  in  her  life  filled 
every  office  for  which  German  towns  have  an  opening, 
from  burgomaster  down ;  but  that  she  had  been  a 
farmer  I  never  suspected. 

"  You  must  tell  me,  Fraulein,  all  about  it,  when  we 
are  on  the  Rhine.     We  can  talk  quietly  there." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  I  tell  you.  It  are  Uke  story  in 
book." 

For  a  few  moments  she  looked  dreamily  and  sadly 
out  of  the  window ;  but  her  nature  had  no  room  for 
continued  melancholy.  Soon  she  began  to  laugh  again, 
at  sight  of  the  slow,  ditch-like  Main,  on  which  un- 
wieldy boats  and  sloops  were  wriggling  along. 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  xx 

"  0  my  lady,  this  river  go  all  the  way  as  if  he  think 
each  minute,  '  I  go  no  farther. '  " 

Match  that  who  can  for  a  hit  at  a  sluggish  river. 

At  one  of  the  stations  I  saw  her  talking  with  a  con- 
ductor on  another  train  bound  back  to  Nuremberg. 

'■  I  ask  for  my  cousin.  He  are  ober-conductor  on 
that  train.  I  send  him  note.  He  can  see  me  when  I 
come  back.  He  will  be  in  Heaven  when  he  get  my 
note."  And  her  face  twinkled  more  like  the  face  of 
fifteen  than  of  fifty.     I  looked  inquiringly. 

"He  are  my  cousin;  but  I  love  he  not;  but  he 
write  me  every  year,  for  tirteen  year,  '  Will  you  marry 
me  ?  '  and  I  write  to  he  :  '  Thank  you,  thank  you,  but 
I  think  not  to  marry  you,  nor  any  other  man.  Live 
well,  live  well.'  And  he  speak  no  more,  till  come  same 
time  next  year ;  but  always  he  say  to  all  peoples,  that 
he  will  me  marry.  He  wait  till  I  be  glad  of  he.  But  I 
think  he  wait  till  I  die.  And  his  mother  she  hate  me, 
because  she  wish  that  he  had  wife  to  take  he  out  of  her 
house.  He  make  her  cry  so  much,  so  much.  He  is 
so  —  how  do  you  say,  my  lady,  when  peoples  is  all 
time  like  this  ? "  and  in  an  instant  she  had  utterly 
transformed  her  face,  so  that  she  could  have  passed 
any  police  officer  in  the  world,  however  he  had  been 
searching  for  her,  so  cross,  so  glum,  so  hateful  did  she 
become  from  eyebrows  to  chin.  Never  oflf  the  stage, 
and  rarely  on  it,  have  I  seen  such  power  of  mimicry 
us  had  this  wonderful  old  Fraulein. 

"  He  are  always  like  that,  my  lady,  all  time,  morning, 
noon,  night,  all  year;  and  he  say  every  day  to  his 
mother,  '  Hold  tongue !  I  will  not  have  wife,  if  I  can- 
not have  Caroline.'"  This  last  sentence  she  pronounced 
with  a  slow,  sullen,  dogged  drawl,  which  would  have 
made  the  fortune  of  an  actress. 

"0  Fraulein,"  I  said,  "you  ought  to  have  been  an 
actress." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  I  think, "  she  replied,  as  simply  as 
a  child,  with  no  shade  of  vaaiity  in  her  manner.     "  I 


12  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

would  be  rich  woman  now.  When  I  was  a  child,  a 
great  manager  in  Augsburg  he  ask  my  grandfather  to 
give  me  to  study  with  his  daughter.  He  say  I  make 
good,  and  be  great  player ;  but  in  those  days  no  people 
liked  artists  like  to-day,  and  my  grandfather  he  are  so 
angry,  and  he  say,  '  Go  away ;  come  no  more  in  my 
house.' " 

Thus  laughing  and  listening,  and  looking  out  on  the 
pleasant  meadows  of  the  Main,  we  came  to  Mayence, 
iind  at  Mayence  took  boat  to  go  down  the  Rhine. 
This  was  the  Fraulein's  first  sight  of  the  Rhine.  All  the 
tenderness  and  pride  and  romance  of  her  true  German 
«oul  were  in  her  eyes,  as  the  boat  swung  slowly  round 
from  the  pier,  and  began  to  glide  down  the  river.  And 
now  began  a  new  series  of  surprises.  From  Mayence 
to  Cologne  there  was  not  a  ruin  of  which  my  Fraulein 
did  not  know  the  story.  Baedeker  was  superseded, 
except  for  the  names  of  places ;  as  soon  as  I  mentioned 
them  to  her  she  invariably  replied,  "  0  yes,  I  know  ; 
and  have  you  read,  my  lady,  how,"  etc.  The  Johannis- 
berg  Castle,  given  to  Metternich  by  his  Emperor,  the 
cruel  Hatto's  Tower,  the  Devil's  Ladder,  the  Seven 
Virgins,  the  Lurley,  the  Brothers,  Rolandseck  and  Non- 
nenwerth,  —  she  knew  them  all  by  heart ;  and  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  the  time-worn  old  stories,  in  her  de- 
licious broken  English,  I  pretended  to  have  forgotten  all 
the  legends.  Nothing  moved  her  so  much  as  the  sight 
of  the  two  rocky  peaks  on  which  the  two  brothers  had 
lived,  and  looked  down  on  the  Bornhofen  Convent  in 
which  their  beloved  Hildegarde  was  shut  up. 

*'  0,  each  brother,  he  could  see  her  if  she  walk  in  that 
garden,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Now,  it  come 
no  more  that  a  man  love  so  much,  so  long  so  true." 

Just  beyond  the  Brothers  we  passed  the  great  Ma- 
rienburg  water-cure.  Reading  from  Baedeker,  I  said  : 
"  Fraulein,  that  would  be  a  cheap  place  to  live ;  only 
twelve  thalers  a  week  for  board  and  lodging  and  med- 
ical attendance." 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  13 

"  0  no,  my  dear  lady.  It  are  not  cheap,  for  there  be 
nothing  to  eat.  At  end  of  eight  day  the  man  from  Was- 
sercure  he  shall  be  so  thin,  so  thin,  it  shall  shine  the 
sun  through  him." 

Throughout  our  whole  journey  the  Fraulein's  aston- 
ishment was  unbounded  at  the  poor  fare  and  the  high 
prices.  In  her  beautiful  goodness,  she  had  supposed 
that  all  landlords  were  content,  as  she,  with  moderate 
profits,  and  anxious,  as  she,  to  give  to  their  guests  the 
best  food- 

"  0  my  lady,  find  you  this  chicken  good  ?  " 

"  Not  very,  Fraulein.     What  is  the  matter  with  it  ?  " 

*'0,  the  bad  man,  the  bad  man,  to  ask  for  this 
chicken  one  gulden.  He  are  old  chicken,  my  lady, 
and  he  are  boiled  before  he  are  in  oven.  0,  I  know 
very  well.  0,  I  win  much  money  by  this  journey; 
never  before  had  I  courage  to  give  old  chicken.  Now 
I  give ! " 

Much  I  fear  me  that  fi*om  this  time  henceforth  the 
lodgers  in  my  dear  Fraulein's  house  will  not  find  it 
such  a  marvel  of  cheap  comfort  as  we  did. 

"  0  my  lady,"  she  said  one  day,  "if  you  come  again 
to  me,  you  shall  all  have  as  before.  But  to  other  peo- 
ples, I  no  more  give  beefsteak  for  fifteen  kreutzers.  I 
will  be  more  rich,  I  have  been  ass." 

By  dint  of  the  Cologne  and  Dusseldorf  line  of  steam- 
boats, and  the  Netherland  steamship  line,  and  endless 
questioning  and  unlading  and  lading,  the  Fraulein  and  I 
and  the  trunks  at  last  came  to  land  at  Rotterdam.  We 
had  a  day  at  Cologne,  a  night  at  Dusseldorf,  and  one 
never-to-be-forgotten  night  on  the  river.  At  Diissel- 
dorf,  we  wandered  about  the  streets  for  an  hour  and  a 
half  seeking  where  to  lay  our  heads.  Here  the  poor 
Fraulein  had  on  her  hands,  besides  me,  an  English 
barrister  and  his  wife,  who  could  speak  no  German, 
and  who  drifted  very  naturally  into  our  wake.  What 
a  procession  we  were  at  eleven  o'clock  of  the  darkest 
sort  of  night,  nobody  knowing  just  were  he  was  goin^ 


14 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


each  person  thinking  somebody  else  was  taking  the 
lead !  Suddenly  the  porters  ahead  of  us  plumped  our 
trunks  down  in  the  middle  of  the  street  at  the  feet  of 
two  men  with  lanterns. 

"  Really,  aw,  now  this  is,  aw,  the  most  extraordi- 
nary place  for  a  custom-house,  aw,  'pon  my  honor," 
said  the  English  barrister,  whose  name  was  not  Dun- 
dreary. 

"  Have  you  meat  or  sausages  ?  "  said  the  biggest 
man,  flashing  his  lantern-light  full  into  our  dismayed 
faces.  "  0  mercy,  no  1 "  shouted  we  with  bursts  of 
laughter,  and  such  evident  honesty,  that  he  let  us  go, 
contenting  himself  with  punching  the  sides  of  all  the 
carpet-bags. 

"  O  Fraulein,  did  you  tell  that  man  you  had  no  sau- 
sages ?  "  said  I,  sure  she  could  not  have  eaten  up  the 
six  I  saw  her  buy  at  Cologne. 

"  My  dear  lady,  he  say,  '  Have  you  meat  or  sausage  ?' 
and  I  say,  'No,  I  have  no  meat.'  I  not  make  lie,  I 
make  diplomatique." 

From  Diisseldorf  to  Rotterdam  it  was  a  day  and  a 
night  and  half  a  day.  The  Rhine  stretched  broader 
and  broader.  The  shores  of  Holland  seemed  slowly 
going  under  water,  and  the  windmill  arms  beat  the 
air  wildly  like  struggling  arms  of  drowning  monsters. 
It  was  as  cold  as  winter  in  the  cabin :  and  it  rained 
pitilessly  on  the  deck.  The  poor  Fraulein  read  all  the 
magazines  which  I  had  bought  for  her  in  Cologne,  and 
an  old  comic  almanac  which  she  borrowed  from  the 
steward,  and  at  last  curled  herself  up  in  a  corner  and 
went  to  sleep  in  despair.  The  night  differed  from  the 
day  only  in  being  a  little  colder  and  darker,  and  in  the 
Fraulein's  having  a  red-flannel  petticoat  over  her  head. 
When  I  waked  up  and  saw  her  pleasant  great  face  in 
tills  ruddy  halo  of  fiery  flannel,  I  felt  as  comforted  as  . 
if  it  had  been  a  noonday  sun. 

It  was  at  noon  of  a  Thursday  that  we  came,  as  I 
said,   to  land  at   Rotterdam ;    but  this  is  hardly  the 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


15 


proper  phrase  in  which  to  describe  arriving  at  a  place 
which  is  nine  parts  water.  Venice  seems  high  and 
dry  in  comparison  with  it;  and  the  fact  that  you  go 
about  in  boats  at  Venice,  and  in  cabs  at  Rotterdam, 
only  serves  to  make  the  wateriness  of  Rotterdam  more 
noticeable. 

"  0  my  lady,  it  are  all  one  bridge  from  one  water  to 
another  water,"  said  Fraulein,  as  we  drove  up  and 
down  and  across  canal  after  canal  to  find  the  house  of 
Moses  Ezekiel,  the  Jew,  who  is  a  money-changer.  It 
rained  dismally,  but  the  Dutchwomen  were  out  on  all 
the  doorsteps,  with  pails  of  water,  scrubbing  and  wiping 
and  brushing  and  rinsing,  with  cloths  and  mops  and 
brooms,  as  if  they  were  enchanted  by  some  soap-and- 
watery  demon.  Windows  shone  like  mirrors;  door- 
handles glittered  like  jewels. 

"  0,  how  they  do  are  clean,  these  Dutch ! "  said 
the  Fraulein,  taking  account  with  a  housekeeper's  eye 
of  all  this  spotlessness. 

How  sorry  I  grew  as  the  hour  came  for  me  to  say 
good  by  to  this  dear,  honest,  droll,  loving  woman  I 
cannot  tell.  The  last  thing  she  did  for  me  was  to  look 
at  the  sheets  in  the  dreary  little  berth  in  which  must 
be  spent  my  one  night  between  Rotterdam  and  Lon- 
don, and  to  say  with  great  indignation  to  the  surprised 
stewardess.  "Call  you  those  sheets  clean,  in  English ? 
Never  my  lady  sleep  in  such  sheets,  from  Munich  to 
Rotterdam.  0,  but  I  think  a  steamschiflf  (boat)  are 
place  for  bad  peoples  to  be  punish  for  sin !  " 

Then  she  cried  over  me  a  little  and  went  away.  I 
watched  her  till  she  had  shut  the  cab  door,  and  was 
being  whirled  off  to  take  the  early  train  for  Munich. 
Then  I  too  shed  a  few  tears,  saying  to  myself,  "  God 
bless  the  old  darling !    I  shall  never  see  her  like  again." 

The  story  of  the  Fr'aulein's  life  I  feel  a  hesitancy 
about  telling.  It  stands  out  so  in  my  memory  in  its 
quaint,  picturesque,  eloquent  broken  English,  that  to 
try  to  reproduce  it  is  like  trying  to  describe  one  of 


1 6  A   GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

Teniera's  pictures  of  peasant  life.  But  nothing,  not 
even  the  dulness  of  grammatical  speech,  can  rob  it  of 
aU  its  flavor  of  romance,  and  no  one  but  myself  will 
know  how  much  it  loses  in  my  hands. 


PART   II. 

Her  father  was  a  Suabian  hunter,  and  one  of  the 
king's  rangers.  Her  mother  was  a  daughter  of  a 
subaltern  officer.  There  were  ten  children,  of  which 
ray  Fraulein  and  her  twin  brother  were  the  youn- 
gest. They  were  poor  but  gay,  living  a  free  life  in 
the  woods,  with  venison  for  dinner  every  day.  When 
the  little  Caroline  —  for  now  I  must  give  her  her 
name  —  was  three  years  old  her  father  died ;  but  she 
never  forgot  him,  remembering  to  this  day,  she  says, 
more  vividly  than  almost  anything  else  in  her  life,  how 
he  used  to  come  home  in  his  ranger's  uniform,  and  tak- 
ing her  on  one  arm  and  her  twin  brother  on  the  other, 
toss  them  both  up  in  the  air,  calling  her  his  little 
"  rusty  angel,"  in  affectionate  jest  at  her  freckled  skin. 

One  year  later  the  mother  died,  and  the  ten  children, 
left  with  very  little  money,  were  scattered  here  and 
there,  in  houses  of  friends  and  relatives.  Caroline  was 
sent  to  her  paternal  grandfather,  who  was  a  govern- 
ment advocate  in  Augsburg.  The  grandmother  had 
written  that  she  would  take  the  handsomest  of  the  six 
little  girls,  and  the  lot  fell  on  Caroline.  O,  what  a  pic- 
ture it  was  she  drew  of  her  arrival,  late  at  night,  at 
the  fine  house  in  Augsburg  I  She  was  carried,  a  poor 
little  frozen  bundle  of  baby,  into  a  great  parlor,  where 
her  grandparents  with  a  small  party  of  friends  were 
playing  whist.  The  servant  set  her  on  the  piano 
while  they  unrolled  her  wrappings,  one  after  another, 
for  it  was  a  cold  winter  night. 

"  Then  at  last  out  came  I ;  and  they  stand  me  up  on 
the  piano,  and  my  grandmother  she  say,  'Mein  GottI 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


17 


if  this  be  the  handsome,  what  are  the  rest?'  And 
one  old  servant,  —  and  she  I  hate  all  my  life,  —  she 
put  both  her  hands  high,  and  she  say,  '  Mein  Gott,  she 
have  red  hair  and  rusty  skin  !  '  " 

In  a  few  days,  however,  the  little  red-haired,  rusty- 
skinned  child  became  the  pet  of  the  whole  house ;  and 
from  this  time  till  her  grandmother's  death  Caroline  was 
happy.  But  before  she  was  six  she  had  become  such 
an  unmanageable  little  hoyden,  that  her  grandparents, 
m  despair,  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  school  in  Augsburg, 
only  allowing  her  to  come  home  for  Saturdays  and 
Sundays  and  the  vacations.  In  this  school  she  spent 
seven  years,  and  came  out,  at  thirteen,  a  full-grown 
woman,  knowing  a  little  of  many  things,  but  no  one 
thing  well,  and  too  full  of  animal  Ufe  to  be  held  with 
any  bonds.  That  very  year  came  her  first  lover,  Ask- 
ing to  marry  her. 

"  My  grandfather,  he  send  for  me,  and  I  come,  like  I 
go  always  on  one  foot,  jumping  like  cat  for  bird ;  and 
there  sit  tliis  man  I  know  not ;  and  my  grandfather  he 
point  to  me,  and  he  say,  'You  think  to  marry  that 
child  ?  Look  at  her ! ' "  I  am  sure  that  the  Fraulein 
was  too  modest  to  tell  me  how  beautiful  she  was  as  a 
young  girl.  But  I  can  easily  make  the  picture  for  my- 
self She  was  above  the  medium  height,  and  very 
slender;  her  cheeks  were  red,  her  forehead  high  and 
white ;  her  eyes  the  brightest  and  wickedest  hazel,  and 
her  mouth  and  chin  piquant  and  wilful  and  tender  and 
strong,  altogether.  Not  often  does  the  world  see  just 
such  a  face  as  she  must  have  had  in  her  youth. 

The  next  year  the  grandmother  died,  and  now  be- 
gan dark  days  for  Caroline.  Two  of  her  aunts,  who 
had  not  loved  her  father,  came  to  keep  her  grand- 
father's house.  They  locked  up  her  piano.  They  took 
away  the  pretty  clothes  her  grandmother  had  given 
her.  They  gave  her  more  and  more  hard  work  to  do, 
until  in  one  short  year  she  was  like  a  servant  in  the 
house.    Then  they  sent  her  away  to  another  aunt's 

B 


18  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

bouse,  on  pretence  of  a  visit,  and  kept  her  there 
three  months ;  and  when  she  returned,  she  found  that 
her  grandfather,  who  was  now  very  old  and  imbecile, 
had  married  a  new  wife. 

"  Now  came  for  me  the  worst  of  all  the  time.  My 
grandfather's  wife,  she  say,  '  You  must  not  stay  here,  I 
will  not  have,  you  are  too  fine  lady.  You  can  go  earn 
your  bread  like  others.'  And  I  say,  '  0,  what  can  I 
do  ?  I  nothing  know,  where  can  I  go  ? '  And,  my 
lady,  I  are  only  fifteen  when  she  tell  me  to  go  make 
living  for  myself" 

The  grandfather  was  too  old  and  feeble  to  interfere, 
and  moreover  had  been  prejudiced  against  Caroline  by 
his  wife  and  daughters.  So  the  child  went  out  into 
the  world,  with  a  little  bundle  of  clothes  and  a  few 
gulden  in  her  pocket.  She  had  about  one  hundred 
dollars  a  year  from  her  father's  estate,  which  luckily 
was  in  the  hands  of  a  trustee,  or  the  cruel  aunts  would 
have  robbed  her  of  that.  A  kind  neighbor  took  her 
in,  and  tried  to  cheer  her ;  but  her  heart  was  broken. 
"  All  day,  my  lady,  I  cry  and  I  cry,  till  I  look  so  ugly 
nobody  would  take  such  ugly  girl  to  live  in  house  for 
servant.     My  face  get  quite  another  shape." 

At  last  the  good  neighbor  came  home  one  day  in 

great  delight,  and  told  Caroline  that  the  Baroness 

had  seen  her  in  church,  and  liked  her  face  so  much 
that  she  had  asked  her  name,  and  now  sent  to  know 
if  she  would  come  and  live  with  her  as  nurse  for  her 
three  little  children. 

"  This  are  like  help  from  Heaven,  my  lady ;  and 
when  I  go  to  Baroness,  she  take  me  by  chin,  and 
she  say,  'Would  you  like  to  live  in  my  house?' 
And  I  cry  so,  I  can  no  more  speak,  and  I  say,  *  0, 
I  glad  of  any  house,  so  I  have  home.'  " 

For  three  years  she  lived  with  the  Baroness,  who 
proved  a  kind  and  wise  mistress.  The  little  children 
were  sweet  and  lovable,  and  "I  think  I  stay  in 
that  house  tUl  my  time  come  to  be  died,"  said  the 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


19 


Frauleiii,  with  tender  wet  eyes.  But  one  day  came  a 
sharp,  authoritative  letter  from  her  grandfather,  order- 
ing her  to  return  home  at  once. 

"I  get  great  afraid,  I  think  he  wish  to  me  kill, 
and  I  would  not  go;  but  the  Baroness  say,  'No, 
he  are  your  grandfather,  you  must  go.'  So  I  go, 
and  my  grandfather  he  look  at  me  with  such  angry 
eyes  I  am  sick,  I  cannot  stand  up ;  and  he  say, 
'The  Baron  love  you  too  much.  You  are  vile,  bad 
girl.  You  go  no  more  to  his  house.  I  will  you 
shut  up.'  " 

Cruel,  idle  tongues  had  done  poor  Caroline  thig 
harm.  Probably  the  scandal  rose  from  the  careless 
jest  of  some  thoughtless  man  or  woman,  who  had  ob- 
served the  beautiful  face  of  the  young  nursery-maid  in 
the  Baron's  house.  "  I  should  make  lie,  my  lady," 
said  the  Fraulein  here,  "  if  I  say  that  the  Baron  speak 
ever  to  me  one  word  not  like  my  father.  He  good 
man." 

After  a  few  wretched  weeks  in  the  grandfather's 
house  Caroline  found   a  second  home   in  the  family 

of  the  Countess  of  Augsburg.     Here  she  lived 

for  seven  years  as  lady's-maid  to  the  old  Countess, 
who  loved  her  much.  "But  the  young  Countess, 
Bhe  love  me  not.  She  hate  me.  It  are  like  cat 
see  dog  always  when  we  see  each  other,  we  so 
hate ;  but  my  old  Countess,  she  say  always  to  me, 
'  O  Caroline,  have  patient,  have  patient ;  for  my 
sake  go  you  not  away." "  At  last  came  a  day  when, 
for  some  trifling  provocation,  the  young  Countess 
took  Caroline's  two  ears  in  her  noble  hands,  and 
jerked  her  head  violently  back  and  forth,  until  the 
girl  could  hardly  see. 

"Many  time,  my  lady,  I  say  to  her,  'Take  your 
hands  away,  I  will  not  from  any  man  this  bear'; 
and  at  last,  my  lady,  I  make  so,"  said  the  Fiau- 
lein,  hitting  out  from  the  .shoulder  with  a  great 
thrust  which  a  prize-fighter  might  admire,  "and  she 


ao  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

go  back  against  the  wall;  and  the  old  Count,  he 
come  flying  and  scream,  'You  kill  my  daughter, 
you  shall  to  prison  go.'  And  he  put  his  hand  on 
me,  and  I  make  so  again,  my  lady,  that  he  go 
back  against  the  other  wall.  0,  I  was  strong  like 
one  hundred  men!  And  my  poor  old  Countess  she 
come  with  her  two  hands  tight,  and  she  cry,  '  0 
Caroline,  Caroline,  be  not  like  this ;  go  not  away 
Irom  me.'  And  I  say  to  her,  'My  dear  lady,  I 
no  more  can  bear.  I  go  away  to-nigljt';  and  I  go 
to  my  room,  and  in  middle  of  my  angry  I  stop 
to  laugh,  to  see  the  old  Count  hke  he  pinned  to 
the  wall  where  I  put  him  with  my  one  arm,  and 
the  young  Countess  like  she  pinned  to  the  other 
wall,  where  I  put  her  with  my  other  arm." 

In  an  hour  Caroline  had  packed  her  boxes,  and 
was  ready  to  leave  the  house,  but  she  found  her- 
self a  prisoner  in  her  room.  The  door  was  firmly 
locked,  and  to  all  her  cries  she  could  get  no  answer. 
All  night  long  she  walked  up  and  down  with  her 
bonnet  and  cloak  on.  At  eight  in  the  morning  the  bell 
rang  as  usual  for  her  to  go  to  the  Countess.  "  Ha !  " 
say  I,  "the  old  Count  he  think  I  go  to  my  lady, 
for  her  I  so  love.  But  I  open  my  door,  I  have  heard 
he  come  like  cat  and  unlock  with  key ;  and  I  go 
straight  to  big  door  of  great  hall ;  and  at  door  stand 
old  Count,  and  he  say,  '  What  mean  you  ?  Gro  to  the 
Countess.'  And  I  say,  '  No,  I  go  no  more  to  Coun- 
tess, I  go  to  burgomaster.  And  I  look  at  he  so  he 
no  more  dare  move.  I  think,"  with  a  chuckle  of 
deUght  at  the  memory,  "he  no  more  wish  to  feel 
how  heavy  are  my  hand,  for  he  are  poor  little  man. 
I  could  him  kill  like  chicken,  and  so  he  know  very 
well" 

Straight  to  the  burgomaster  the  excited  Caroline 
went,  and  told  her  story.  For  once  a  burgomaster 
was  on  the  side  of  right;  reprimanded  the  Count 
severely,  and  compelled  him  to  give  up  all  Caroline's 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY.  21 

boxes,  and  pay  her  the  full  sum  due  of  her  wagea 
Now  she  was,  for  the  first  time  for  many  years,  thor- 
oughly happy.  She  had  saved  money  in  her  seven 
years'  service,  and  she  had  become  a  skilful  dress- 
maker. She  hired  a  little  apartment,  and  sent  for  an 
old  servant  who  had  been  fond  of  her  in  her  cliild- 
hood. 

Old  Monika  was  only  too  glad  to  come  and  live 
once  more  with  her  young  mistress ;  and  as  for  Caro- 
line, after  ten*  years  of  serving,  to  be  once  more 
independent,  to  have  an  affectionate  waiting-woman 
ready  to  do  her  bidding,  —  "  it  was  like  Heaven, 
my  lady.  In  morning,  Monika  she  bring  me  my 
bath,  like  I  lady  again ;  and  she  say,  '  Fraulein,  my 
Fraulein.'  And  I  make  my  eyes  like  I  sleep,  sleep, 
so  that  I  can  hear  her  say  '  my  Fraulein  '  many  times, 
it  so  me  please.  Then  she  be  fear  that  I  died ;  and 
she  come  close  and  take  me  by  shoulder  ;  and  then 
I  give  jump  quick  out  of  bed,  and  make  her  great 
fright  and  great  laugh.  But  always  I  eat  with  my 
Monika,  as  if  I  not  lady,  for  I  say,  I  too  have  been 
servant;  and  I  cannot  eat  by  self;  I  have  not  hun- 
gry ;  and  I  love  my  old  Monika  very  much." 

The  good  Countess  sent  all  her  friends  to  Caroline, 
and  in  a  short  time  she  had  more  dressmaking  than 
she  could  do,  even  with  Monika's  help;  but  she  would 
not  employ  workwomen.  She  tried  the  experiment 
once,  and  had  a  seamstress  for  three  months,  but  she 
could  not  endure  the  trouble  and  annoyance  of  it.  "  0 
my  lady,  I  get  in  such  great  angry  with  she,  she  make 
so  stupid  things.  I  send  she  away.  I  think  I  be  died 
with  angry,  if  she  not  go." 

It  was,  after  all,  but  a  bare  living  that  one  woman's 
hands  could  earn  Math  a  needle  in  Augsburg,  in  those 
days.  Caroline  and  her  Monika  had  only  about  two 
hundred  dollars  a  year. 

"  How  could  you  live  on  so  little  money,  dear  Frau- 
lein? ''  said  I. 


22  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

"  0  my  lady,  in  those  time  all  are  so  cheap.  I  get 
pound  of  meat  for  nine  kreutzers,  now  it  are  twenty. 
I  get  quart  milk  for  three  kreutzers,  now  it  are  five.  I 
get  nine  eggs  for  four  kreutzers,  now  f  must  pay  two 
kreutzers  for  one  egg ;  and  in  Augsburg  then  I  buy  for 
one  kreutzer  all  vegetable  Monika  and  I  eat  for  two 
day,  and  now  in  my  house  in  Munich  I  give  six  kreut- 
zers for  what  I  must  give  one  person  at  one  time." 

Even  at  these  low  prices  they  had  to  live  sparingly : 
one  half-pound  of  meat  three  times  »  week ;  never 
anything  but  coffee  and  bread  for  breakfast;  once  a 
week  a  glass  of  wine.  But  Caroline  was  happy  and 
content.  "Never  did  I  think  to  ask  God  for  more 
than  I  have.  I  are  so  glad  with  my  Monika ;  and  I 
sing  at  my  sew  all  day." 

But  fate  was  spinning  a  new  tint  into  Caroline's  life. 
In  the  spring  of  her  third  year  of  dress-making  she 
found  herself  seized  with  a  sudden  ambition  to  go  to 
Munich  and  get  new  fashions. 

"  It  are  great  journey  for  me  to  take  alone;  and  I  had 
not  money  that  Monika  go  too ;  I  know  I  need  not  to 
go  ;  but  I  cannot  be  free  night  nor  day  fi-om  thinking  I 
will  to  Munich  go,  and  get  fashion  for  my  ladies." 

On  the  fourth  day  after  her  arrival  in  Munich  the 
poor  solitary  Augsburg  dress-maker  was  taken  ill  with 
a  terrible  fever.  In  great  fright,  the  lodging-house 
keeper  had  her  carried  to  the  hospital,  and  gave  her- 
self no  further  concern  about  the  friendless  stranger. 
There  poor  Caroline  lay  in  a  crowded  ward,  so  delirious 
with  fever  that  she  could  not  speak  intelligently,  and 
yet,  by  one  of  those  inexplicable  mental  freaks  some- 
times seen  in  such  cases,  quite  aware  of  all  which  was 
passing  about  her.  She  heard  the  doctors  pronounce 
her  case  hopeless ;  she  knew  when  they  cut  oflf  her 
beautiful  hair,  but  she  tried  in  vain  to  speak,  or  to 
refrain  from  speaking  when  the  mad  raving  impulse 
seized  her. 

At  length  one  night,  the  third  night,  between  twelve 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


23 


and  one  o'clock,  she  suddenly  opened  her  eyes,  and 
saw  a  tall  man  bending  over  her  bed,  with  a  candle  in 
one  hand. 

"  0  my  lady,  never  can  I  teU  what  I  saw  in  his 
face;  never,  my  lady,  have  you  seen  so  beautiful  face. 
I  say  to  myself,  '  0,  I  think  I  be  died,  and  this  are  the 
Jesu  Christ;  or  if  I  not  be  died,  this  are  my  darling  for 
all  my  life.'  And  he  smile  and  say,  '  Are  you  better?  ' 
And  I  shut  my  eyes,  and  I  say  to  myself,  '  I  will  not 
speak.     It  are  Jesu  Christ.'  " 

This  was  the  young  Dr.  Anton ,  who  had  been, 

from  the  moment  Caroline  was  brought  into  the  hospi- 
tal, so  untiring  a  watcher  at  her  bedside,  that  all  his 
fellow-students  persecuted  him  with  raillery. 

"But  my  Anton  he  say  to  them,  'I  do  not  know 
what  it  are,  I  think  that  beautiful  girl '  (for,  my  lady, 
all  peoples  did  call  me  beautiful ;  you  would  not  now 
think,  now  I  am  such  ugly,  thick,  old  woman),  —  'I 
think  that  beautiful  girl  die.  But  if  she  not  die,  she 
are  my  wife.  You  can  laugh,  all  you ;  but  I  have  no 
other  wife  in  this  world. '  " 

It  was  in  very  few  words  that  my  Fraulein  told  me 
this  part  of  her  story.  But  we  were  two  women,  look- 
ing into  each  other's  wet  eyes,  and  I  knew  all  she  did 
not  say. 

They  could  not  be  married,  Anton  and  Caroline ;  for 
the  paternal  government  of  Bavaria,  not  liking  to  have 
too  large  pauper  families  left  on  its  hands,  forbids  men 
to  marry  until  they  can  deposit  a  certain  sum  in  gov- 
ernment trust  for  the  support  of  their  families,  if  they 
die.  Anton  had  not  a  cent  in  the  world  :  neither  had 
Caroline.  For  four  years  they  worked  and  waited,  he 
getting  slowly  but  surely  into  practice ;  she,  laying  by 
a  gulden  at  a  time  out  of  her  earnings.  Once  in  four 
weeks  he  came  to  Augsburg  to  see  her,  sometimes  to 
stay  a  day,  sometimes  only  a  few  hours.  "  It  took  so 
much  money  for  journey,  he  could  not  more  often  come. 
But  he  say,   'My  liebling,  I  may  die  before  we  can 


24  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

marry,  I  will  make  sure  to  kiss  you  once  in  four 
week.' " 

There  was,  perhaps,  a  prophetic  instinct  in  Anton's 
heart.  Before  the  end  of  the  fourth  year  his  health 
failed,  and  he  was  obliged  to  leave  Munich,  and  go 
home  to  his  mother's  house.  For  six  months  Caroline 
did  not  see  him.  Week  by  week  came  sadder  ana  sad- 
der letters.  Anton  was  dying  of  consumption.  At  last 
his  mother  wrote,  "  If  you  want  to  see  Anton  alive, 
come." 

At  sight  of  Caroline  he  revived,  so  much  so  that  the 
physicians  said,  if  he  had  no  return  of  hemorrhage,  he 
might  possibly  live  three  months ;  longer  than  that  he 
could  not  hold  out. 

0  cruel,  paternal  government  of  Bavaria!  Here 
were  this  man  and  woman,  held  apart  from  each  other, 
even  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  by  tlie  hu- 
mane law  providing  against  pauper  children. 

The  one  desire  left  in  Anton's  heart  was  to  be  moved 
to  Augsburg,  and  die  in  Caroline's  house.  He  and  his 
mother  were  not  in  sympathy ;  the  family  was  large  and 
poor;  he  was  in  the  way.  Then  Caroline  said,  "Come." 

"  0  my  lady,  you  think  not  it  was  harm.  His  moth- 
er she  go  on  knees  to  me,  and  say,  '  Take  Anton  with 
you.'  And  I  know  I  can  keep  him  alive  many  weeks 
in  my  house;  he  will  be  so  glad  when  he  are  alone 
with  me,  he  will  not  die  so  soon.  No  one  could  speak 
harm  of  me,  for  this  man  I  lead  like  little  child,  and  hft 
in  my  arms,  he  are  so  sick." 

So  Caroline  gave  up  her  apartment  in  Augsburg, 
hired  a  little  farm-house  just  out  of  the  city,  and  took 
her  lover  home  to  die.  The  farm  was  just  large  enough 
for  her  to  keep  two  cows  and  raise  a  few  vegetables. 
The  house  had  but  one  good  rooiu,  and  that  was  fitted 
up  for  Anton.  Caroline  and  Monika  slept  in  two  little 
closets  wliich  opened  from  the  kitchen.  Before  day- 
light Monika  went  into  the  city  to  sell  milk  and  vege- 
tables ;  while  she  was  gone  Caroline  took  care  of  the 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


25 


stable  and  the  animals,  and  worked  in  the  garden. 
Not  one  kreutzer's  worth  of  work  did  they  hire.  The 
two  women's  hands  did  all. 

In  the  sweet  country  air  and  in  the  sight  of  Caroline, 
Anton  grew  daily  stronger,  until  at  the  end  of  three 
montlis  he  could  walk  a  few  rods  without  leaning  on 
her  arm,  and  hope  sprang  up  once  more  in  their  hearts. 

Then,  lured  by  that  illusive  dream,  which  has  cost  so 
many  dying  men  and  women  so  dear,  they  started  for 
Italy  to  escape  the  severe  winter  winds  of  Augsburg. 
They  went  in  a  little  one-horse  wagon,  journeying  a  few 
miles  a  day,  resting  at  farm-houses,  where  the  brave 
Caroline  took  care  of  her  own  horse,  like  a  man,  and 
then  paid  for  their  lodging  by  a  day's  dress-making  for 
the  women  of  the  family.  In  this  way  they  spent  two 
months ;  but  Anton  grew  feebler  instead  of  better,  and 
when  they  reached  home  CaroHne  lifted  him  in  her 
arms,  and  carried  him  from  the  wagon  to  the  bed. 

"  When  I  lay  him  down,  he  look  up  in  my  face  with 
such  look,  and  he  say,  '  Liebling,  it  are  no  use.  I  have 
spent  all  my  money  for  nothing.     Now  I  die.'  " 

The  journey,  cheaply  as  they  had  made  it,  had  used 
up  every  kreutzer  of  the  earnings  which  had  been  put 
by  towards  their  marriage.  Now  they  had  nothing, 
except  what  Caroline  could  earn,  with  now  and  then  a 
little  help  from  Anton's  mother.  But  Caroline's  heart 
never  failed  her ;  she  thought  of  but  one  thing,  the 
keeping  Anton  alive. 

"  All  day,  my  lady,  it  are  as  if  I  see  Death  stand  at 
door ;  and  I  look  at  him  in  eyes,  and  I  say,  '  You  go 
away  !  I  give  not  Anton  to  you  yet.  0  Jesu  Christ, 
let  me  keep  ray  Anton  one  day  the  more.'  " 

And  she  kept  him  day  by  day,  until  the  doctors  said 
his  life  was  a  miracle ;  and  Anton  himself  said  to  her 
sometimes,  "  0  liebling,  let  me  go ;  it  is  better  for  you 
that  I  die." 

At  last  the  day  came,  but  it  was  nearly  at  the  end  of 
the  second  year.     It  was  late  in  the  spring.     Anton 


26  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

had  not  left  his  room  for  weeks ;  but  one  morning  he 
said  to  her  that  he  thought  he  would  like  to  sit  under 
the  trees  once  more. 

"  And,  0  my  lady,  the  minute  he  say  that,  I  know 
he  think  it  are  his  last  day.  So  I  dress  him  in  warm 
clothes,  and  I  carry  him  out  in  my  arms,  and  put  him 
in  big  chair  I  make  myself  out  of  old  died  tree ;  and  the 
sun  it  shine,  shine,  0  so  warm ;  and  I  read  to  him  out 
of  book  he  like.  But  I  see  he  no  more  hear,  and  very 
quick  he  say,  '  Come  close  to  me  ' ;  and  I  go  close,  and 
he  put  his  two  hands  on  my  face  and  say,  '  Liebling,  I 
think  God  be  always  good  to  you  for  your  good  to 
me.'  And  then  he  point  with  finger  that  I  take  him 
in  house ;  and  Monika  and  I  we  have  but  just  get  him 
in  bed,  when  he  fall  back,  and  are  died  in  one  minute ; 
and,  my  lady,  I  can  say  true,  that  in  the  first  minute  I 
was  glad  for  my  Anton  that  he  have  no  more  pain." 

Soon  after  Anton  was  buried  came  Anton's  second 
cousin,  Herr  Bridmacher,  to  see  Caroline.  The  Herr 
Bridmacher  owned  a  great  farm  of  seven  hundred  acres 
near  Starnberg.  By  this  time  all  Anton's  friends,  far 
and  near,  had  heard  of  the  faithful  and  beautiful  Caro- 
line, who  had  so  well  administered  the  little  farm,  and 
made  Anton's  last  months  so  comfortable.  Herr  IBrid- 
macher  oiFered  her  good  wages  and  absolute  control  of 
the  farm.  It  was  the  very  life  she  most  liked,  and  it 
offered  an  escape  from  Augsburg,  the  very  air  of  which 
had  become  insupportable  to  her.  She  accepted  the 
offer  immediately,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  was  walk- 
ing by  Herr  Bridmacher's  side,  up  the  broad  road  of 
Brentonrede  farm. 

"  0  my  lady,  my  heart  he  go  down  in  me  when  I  see 
that  farm.  The  Herr  Bridmacher  he  have  been  fool. 
He  have  the  same  thing  in  the  same  field  all  his  life, 
till  the  ground  be  no  more  good  ;  and  he  are  so  mean, 
he  have  on  that  seven  hundred  acre  only  seven  ser- 
vant; he  have  four  coos,  three  horse,  and  two  pair 
oxen,  and  one  are  lame.    And  the  house,  it  be  shame  to 


^    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


27 


see  such  house ;  it  let  water  come  in  in  many  place ; 
and  the  floor  it  go  up,  and  it  go  down,  like  the  cellar 
are  all  of  hills.  And  I  say  to  him,  '  It  are  well  for 
you,  Herr  Bridmacher,  that  I  not  see  your  fine  farm 
before  I  come.  But  I  have  my  word  given,  and  I  go 
not  back.  I  stay.'  Then  he  begin  to  make  great  com- 
pliment to  me,  how  he  think  I  do  all  well.  But  I  say, 
'  O,  thank  you,  I  not  wish  to  hear.  You  think  to  jour- 
ney, you  have  me  told.  The  sooner  you  go,  the  better 
I  like.  Good  night,  sir.'  So  I  go  to  my  bed ;  but  all 
night  the  wind  he  blow  my  windows  so  I  cannot  to 
sleep  ;  but  I  say  to  myself,  '  Caroline,  if  only  that  fool 
go  away,  here  are  splendid  farm  for  you.'  So  I  am 
quite  quiet.  And  in  the  morning,  Herr  Bridmacher  he 
say,  '  Good  morning,  good  morning.  I  start  to  Italy 
to-morrow';  and  I  say,  'I  very  glad  to  hear  that.  You 
stay  two  years,  I  hope.'  And  when  he  go  down  the 
road  I  stand  at  door,  and  I  snap  my  two  hands  after 
he,  and  I  say,  '  Long  journey  to  you,  my  master.'  " 

With  short  intervals  of  interruption  and  annoyance 
from  Herr  Bridmacher,  Caroline  had  the  management 
of  Brentonrede  farm  for  eleven  years.  At  end  of  that 
time  Brentonrede  owned  seventy-five  cows,  eight 
horses,  eight  pairs  of  oxen,  twenty-four  calves,  and 
two  hundred  chickens.  There  were  twenty-five  work- 
people, —  seventeen  men  and  eight  women.  The 
bouse  was  in  perfect  repair,  and  the  place  had  more 
than  doubled  in  value.  Just  before  Caroline  came  to 
him  the  poor  silly  Herr  Bridmacher  had  offered  it  for 
sale  for  sixty  thousand  gulden  (about  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars)  ;  after  she  left  him  he  sold  it  for  one 
himdred  and  forty  thousand  gulden. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  reproduce  the  Fraulein's 
graphic  and  picturesque  story  of  her  life  during  this 
time.  She  had  no  neighbors,  but  she  was  never  lonely. 
Her  whole  soul  was  in  her  work.  At  three  o'clock 
every  morning  she  rose,  and  gave  the  laborers  their 
first  meal  at  four.    Five  times  a  day  they  were  fed,  the 


28  A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 

Brentonrede  people :  at  four  in  the  morning,  bread, 
soup,  and  potatoes ;  at  eight,  bread  and  milk,  or  bread 
and  beer;  at  eleven,  knoedels,*  with  which  they  had 
either  meat,  pudding,  or  curds ;  at  four,  bread  and  beer ; 
and  at  six  or  eight,  bread  and  soup. 

One  of  her  greatest  troubles  in  the  outset  was  the 
rehgiousness  of  her  work-people ;  —  the  number  of 
Paternosters  they  insisted  on  saying  every  morning  in 
the  little  chapel  on  the  place. 

"  0  my  lady,"  she  said,  "I  wish  you  could  see  that 
chapel.  Such  a  Mother  G-oddess  never  did  I  see  in  my 
life.  She  look  so  like  fool,  that  when  I  go  first  in  I 
make  that  I  drop  something  on  floor  I  cannot  find,  so  I 
put  my  face  close  to  floor,  that  they  not  see  me  laugh. 
But  I  make  she  all  clean ;  and  I  make  chapel  all  clean  ; 
and  then  I  say  to  men,  '  Very  well ;  if  you  need  pray 
fourteen  Paternosters  on  week-day,  you  need  pray 
fourteen  Paternosters  on  Sunday.  So  many  as  you 
pray  on  week-day,  it  are  my  order  that  you  pray  on 
Sunday,  if  you  work  at  Brentonrede.'  Then  they 
grumble,  and  they  tell  the  priest.  They  like  not  to 
take  time  that  are  their  own  time  on  Sunday  to  say 
fourteen  Paternosters ;  but  they  like  better  to  say 
Paternosters  in  my  time  than  to  dig  in  field.  So  the 
priest  he  put  on  his  big  hat,  and  he  come  to  door,  and 
knock,  knock;  and  I  go;  and  he  say,  'Are  you  the 
Fraulein  of  Brentonrede  ?  '  And  I  say,  '  Yes,  Father, 
I  are  she.'  And  then  he  begin  to  say,  '  Now,  my 
daughter,'  with  long  face ;  and  then  he  tell  me  that  he 
are  told  I  have  pigs  in  the  chapel,  and  that  I  will  no) 
let  the  people  to  pray.  And  I  say,  '  0  no,  that  are  no( 
true.'  And  I  take  he  to  chapel,  and  show  how  clean  it 
are ;  and  only  I  have  in  corner  two  big  bottle  of  vitriol, 
which  I  have  afraid  to  keep  in  house,  because  it  are 
such  danger ;  and  I  tell  him  I  think  Holy  Mother  God- 

*  Knoedels  are  (lumplinp;s  made  of  flour,  chopped  herbs,  and 
sometimes  a  little  hnm.  They  are  the  common  food  of  farmers 
throughout  Germany. 


4    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


29 


dess  will  be  so  good  to  keep  it  safe,  that  it  blow  not 
up  the  house.  And  he  say  that  are  no  harm,  but  why 
do  I  not  let  the  people  to  pray.  And  I  tell  him  that  I 
say  not  the  people  shall  not  pray.  I  say  they  shall  pray 
fourteen  Paternoster  on  Sunday,  if  they  pray  fourteen 
Paternoster  on  week-day ;  and  since  then  they  pray 
but  one  Paternoster  on  week-day,  so  that  they  take 
not  time  from  their  Sunday.  And  he  scratch  his  head 
very  hard,  and  know  not  what  to  say  me  to  that ;  and 
then  I  give  him  good  bottle  wine  and  a  cheese,  and  I 
say,  '  Now,  Father,  it  cannot  be  in  this  world  that  we 
believe  all  what  are  telled.  I  do  not  believe  what  are 
telled  of  you,  and  do  you  not  beheve  any  more  what 
are  telled  of  me.'  And  he  get  red  in  the  face,  for 
he  know  all  peoples  say  his  housekeeper  are  wife  to 
he ;  and  so  he  shake  my  hand,  and  he  go  away.  And 
always  I  hear  after  that  he  say,  '  The  Fraulein  of  Bren- 
tonrede  she  are  good  woman ;  she  are  good  Catholic' 
But  he  know  in  his  heart  I  laugh  at  he." 

How  she  gloated  over  some  of  her  harvest  memo- 
ries, —  of  wonderful  afternoons  in  which  more  loads 
of  hay  were  piled  up  in  Brentonrede  barns  than  had 
ever  been  known  to  be  got  in  in  one  afternoon  be- 
fore. One  particular  wheat  harvest,  I  remember,  she 
mentioned.  She  had  seen  at  noon  that  a  heavy  storm 
was  coming  up.  Whole  acres  of  wheat  were  lying  cut, 
ready  to  be  made  up  into  sheaves.  "  Then  I  call  all  the 
men  and  women,  and  I  say,  'If  all  the  wheat  are  in  be- 
fore dark,  I  give  you  one  cask  beer,  and  two  cheese, 
and  all  bread  you  can  eat,  and  a  dance.'  I  think  not  it 
could  be ;  but  I  work  with  them  myself,  and  I  tie  up 
with  the  straw  till  my  hands  they  bleed,  0,  so  much ; 
but  I  nothing  care.  And  the  wheat  it  are  all  in,  my 
lady,  before  nine  o'clock,  —  twenty-five  wagon-loada 
in  one  afternoon  ;  and  in  all  the  country  they  tefl  it 
for  one  great  story  that  it  was  done  in  Brentonrede." 

The  Brentonrede  farm  soon  became  well  known  in 
the  whole  region  about  Staruberg.     Herr  Bridmacher's 


30 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


friends  used  to  make  it  a  stopping-place  in  their  drives ; 
and  the  Fraulein  often  entertained  parties  of  them  at 
tea  or  luncheon.  She  was  very  proud  of  doing  the 
honors  of  Brentonrede ;  and  to  these  parties,  and  to 
her  two  years  of  close  intercourse  with  the  invalid 
Anton,  she  owed  a  certain  savoir  /aire,  which,  added 
to  her  native  gracefulness  and  quickness  of  com])re- 
hension,  would  prevent  her  ever  being  embarrassed,  I 
think,  in  any  situation. 

In  the  tenth  year  of  her  Brentonrede  life  came  a  bur- 
gomaster fi-om  a  neighboring  town  to  ask  her  to  marry 
him.  By  this  time  her  love  for  Anton  had  taken  the 
healthful  shape  of  tender,  regretful  memory,  which 
made  no  sorrow  in  her  active,  useful  life,  and  set  no 
barrier  between  her  and  other  men.  But  her  heart 
was  wedded  to  Brentonrede  farm.  So,  like  a  true  di- 
plomatist, she  told  Herr  Bridmacher  of  this  offer  and 
asked  his  advice. 

"I  know  very  well  he  not  like  that  I  leave  farm. 
He  know  he  cannot  make  farm  by  heself.  I  think  he 
will  marry  me  heself,  to  keep  me  for  farm.  I  not  love 
he.  0  no,  my  lady,  I  love  no  man  after  my  Anton.  But 
I  know  he  g&  on  journey  every  year,  sometimes  for  two 
three  year,  and  I  think  I  like  very  well  to  be  his  wife, 
and  stay  on  farm  while  he  go." 

The  Herr  Bridmacher  took  the  same  view  of  it  that 
Caroline  did.  Of  course  he  could  not  have  her  leave 
the  farm :  so  he  said  he  would  marry  her  when  he 
came  back  from  Italy,  —  from  a  year's  journey  on 
which  he  was  about  starting.  The  burgomaster  wag 
sent  away,  and  Caroline  went  contentedly  on  with  her 
farming  for  another  year.  When  Herr  Bridmacher 
returned,  and  their  marriage  was  again  discussed,  the 
question  of  settlements  came  up,  and  upon  this  they 
fell  out.  Caroline  was  firm  in  her  demand  that  Bren- 
tonrede should  be  settled  on  her  and  her  children. 

"I  know  very  well,  my  lady,  that  all  his  people  fine 
people.    They  think  I  am  only  poor  work-girl  who  can 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


31 


make  farm.  Never  I  wish  to  go  as  his  wife  into  one 
of  their  house.  It  are  only  for  love  of  farm  that  I 
marry  he ;  if  he  die,  and  I  not  have  farm,  what  I  do 
then  ?  " 

But  Herr  Bridmacher  was  equally  firm.  He  would 
settle  money  on  her,  but  not  Brentonrede.  Money 
Caroline  would  not  have,  not  even  if  it  were  enough  to 
buy  another  farm.  It  was  Brentonrede  she  loved,  and 
she  did  not  in  the  least  love  Herr  Bridmacher.  "  I 
know  all  the  time  he  are  fool,  and  like  mule,  beside," 
she  said;  adding  with  the  gravest  simplicity,  "But  I 
know  he  have  been  for  ten  year  the  most  time  away 
from  Brentonrede,  and  I  think  when  I  are  his  wife  he 
like  it  not  even  so  much  than  before." 

So  Caroline  and  Herr  Bridmacher  parted  in  ■  great 
anger.  With  her  savings  she  bought  a  little  house  in 
the  suburbs  of  Munich.  But  the  city  air  oppressed  her. 
Her  occupation  was  gone.  At  end  of  a  year  she  sold 
the  house  for  two  thousand  gulden  more  than  she  gave 
for  it,  and  bought  another,  farther  out  of  the  city,  with 
a  few  acres  of  ground  about  it.  Here  she  lived  as  she 
had  in  Augsburg,  keeping  one  servant,  three  cows, 
hens  and  chickens,  and  working  all  day  in  a  vegetable 
and  flower  garden. 

"  0  my  lady,  it  are  like  one  picture,  when  I  have 
work  there  one  year.  Not  one  inch  in  all  my  place 
but  have  a  fine  green  leaf  or  flower  growing  on  he ; 
all  peoples  that  drive  by  from  Munich,  they  stop  and 
they  look  and  they  look,  and  I  are  so  proud  when 
T  hear  therh  say,  '  It  are  all  one  woman  that  do  this 
with  her  own  hands.' " 

One  afternoon  as  the  Fraulein  sat  alone  in  her  little 
sunny  parlor,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door. 

"  I  go,  and  I  see,  O  such  nice  Enghshman  I  I  have 
he  seen  before,  many  times,  stands  to  look  in  my  gar- 
den. He  are  priest  I  know  by  his  dress,  —  priest  of 
your  church,  my  lady.  Then  he  say,  '  Do  you  live 
here  alone  ? '     And  I  say,  '  Yes.'     And  then  he  try  to 


32 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


say  more,  but  he  cannot  German  speak,  and  I  no  Eng- 
lish understand.  So  he  laugh,  and  he  say,  'I  come 
again  with  my  wife.     She  can  all  say  in  German.'  " 

The  next  day  he  came  back  with  his  wife,  and  the 
thing  they  had  to  say  was  no  more  nor  less  than  to  teU 
the  Fraulein  tliey  were  coming  to  spend  the  summer 
in  her  house.  Her  face  and  the  face  of  her  garden  had 
been  such  magnets  to  them,  that  their  hearts  were  set 
on  coming  to  live  for  six  months  where  they  could  see 
both  every  day. 

"I  say,  'But  I  know  not  how  to  do  for  high  people. 
T  cannot  make  that  you  have  comfortable.'  But  they 
say,  '  We  will  you  show  all.  We  want  little.'  And 
so  they  come.  They  take  my  two  rooms  up  stairs ; 
and  tJiey  sit  all  day  in  my  garden ;  and  the  lady,  she 
grow  so  fat,  and  she  say  she  are  never  so  happy  in  all 
her  life,  as  in  my  house ;  and  they  are,  now  these  seven 
years,  my  best  friends  in  the  world." 

These  best  friends  of  the  Fraulein's  were  an  Eng- 
lish clergyman  and  his  wife;  and  her  acquaintance 
with  them  was  one  of  the  crises  in  her  romantic  life. 
In  the  autumn  when  it  was  necessary  for  them  to 
go  back  to  Munich,  they  persuaded  her  to  sell  her 
little  farm  (which  was  not  so  profitable  as  pretty) 
and  take  part  of  a  house  in  the  city,  and  rent  apart- 
ments. She  entered  with  many  misgivings  on  this 
untried  experiment;  but  her  shrewd,  sagacious  na- 
ture was  as  successful  here  as  in  remodelling  Herr 
Bridmacher's  exhausted  farm.  She  has  lived  in  Mu- 
nich for  seven  years.  Her  apartment  has  never,  for 
one  month,  stood  empty,  and  she  is  only  waiting  for 
the  opportunity  to  add  to  it  another  whole  floor.  She 
has  nearly  paid  for  her  furniture,  which  is  all  thor- 
oughly good  and  satisfactory,  and  she  says,  "  If  I 
spare  (save)  very  much  and  spend  not  on  nothings, 
I  think  in  six  year  I  have  enough  money  to  go  live  as 
I  like  in  country,  and  have  garden."  She  yearns  for 
green  fields,  and  the  smeU  of  the  earth.    I  am  not  sure 


A    GERMAN  LANDLADY. 


33 


that  the  English  clergyman  did  well  to  transplant  her 
within  the  city  walls. 

As  for  Herr  Bridmacher,  he  came  to  grief,  as  might 
have  been  predicted,  soon  after  parting  with  Caroline. 
After  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  find  some  one  to 
fill  her  place,  he  sold  his  farm  for  one  hundred  and 
forty  thousand  gulden,  put  most  of  the  money  into  a 
commercial  speculation  and  lost  it. 

The  good  Caroline,  hearing  a  short  time  ago  that  he 
was  seen  in  Munich  looking  very  shabby  and  out  at 
elbows,  wrote  asking  him  to  come  to  her  house. 

"  I  could  not  bear,  my  lady,  to  think  that  I  so  com- 
fortable in  this  nice  house  by  the  money  he  pay  me, 
and  he  have  not  money  enough  to  go  like  gentleman  as 
he  always  go  before ;  and  now  I  are  old  woman,  I  can 
ask  to  my  house  if  I  like." 

But  Herr  Bridmacher  was  too  proud  to  come. 

"  He  hate  me.  I  hear  from  friend  that  know,  that 
he  hate  me,  0  so  much !  He  say  I  are  reason  for  all 
his  trouble.  But  I  think  he  are  reason  heself.  Ex- 
cept for  he  had  been  one  mule,  I  are  in  his  house  to- 
day, and  Brentonrede  are  worth  three  hundred  thou- 
sand gulden,  and  he  have  six  children  to  make  that 
he  are  no  more  sorry." 

Poor  Herr  Bridmacher !  From  my  heart  I  pity  him, 
when  I  think  what  he  has  lost.  But  I  have  almost 
more  resentment  than  pity,  when  I  think  that,  but  for 
his  foolish  pride  and  obstinacy,  my  Fraulein  would 
have  been  to-day  the  loving  mother  of  children,  and  the 
gracious  Lady  of  Brentonrede. 


2* 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 

«/^  ASTUNA  tantum  una,"  —  "  Only  one  Gastein," 
VX  — said  the  old  archbishops  of  Salzburg,  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago.  "  Only  one  Gastein,"  echoes  to- 
day on  lips  and  in  hearts  of  all  who  are  so  fortunate 
as  to  find  their  way  into  its  enchanted  valley. 

"  From  Salzburg  to  Bad-Gastein,  by  Hallein  and 
Werfen  70-J  English  miles,  a  journey  of  ten  hours  with 
post-horses " ;  "  Route  two  hundred,"  in  Murray's 
Guide-Book  ;  that  is  the  skeleton  of  the  story.  Even 
at  Murray's  best  spinning,  he  only  takes  six  pages  to 
tell  it,  and  probably  there  have  been  people  who  did 
the  wJiole  journey  in  ten  hours.  Bodies  might;  but 
for  souls  what  a  horrible  spiritual  indigestion  must  fol- 
low quick  on  the  taking  at  one  ten-hours  sitting  the 
whole  feast  of  this  road ! 

We  did  better.  People  who  do  just  as  we  did  will  be- 
gin by  losing  their  temper  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning 
with  the  cross  chambermaid  of  the  Goldener  Schiff  in 
Salzburg,  eating  a  bad  breakfast  in  its  dirty  dining- 
room,  taking  delighted  leave  of  its  inexperienced  land- 
lord, and  galloping  out  of  town  at  seven  to  the  tune 
of  one  of  Mozart's  old  melodies  rung  on  chime-bells. 
The  great  Salzburg  plain  is  a  goodly  sight  of  a  morn- 
ing; circling  meadows  for  miles,  walled  at  last  by 
mountains  which  are  so  far  and  so  green  that  it  is  not 
easy  to  believe  them  six  or  eight  thousand  feet  high ; 
through  the  meadows  the  sluggish  Salzach  River;  in 
the  middle  of  the  meadows,  and  on  the  river,  the  shin- 
ing Salzburg  town ;  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  high 
up  on  a  rocky  crag,  the  silent  Salzburg  castle,  gray, 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


35 


turreted,  and  sure  to  last  as  long  as  the  world.  Those 
old  Archbishops  of  Salzburg  knew  how  to  live.  Wher- 
ever one  comes  upon  traces  of  them,  one  is  impressed 
with  their  worldly  wisdom.  The  impregnable  castle 
of  Salzburg  for  a  stronghold,  with  the  Mbnchsberg  for 
pleasure-grounds,  a  riding-school  cut  out  of  solid  rock 
for  exercise,  Heilbrunn  water-works  for  amusement, 
and  the  Baths  of  Gastein  for  health  and  long  life, — 
what  more  could  these  jolly  old  King  Coles  ask,  ex- 
cept the  privilege  to  kill  all  who  disagreed  with  them? 
And  that  Uttle  privilege  also  they  enjoyed  for  some 
years,  enlarging  it  by  every  possible  ingenuity  of  cruel- 
ty, as  many  stone  dungeons  with  racks  and  oubliettes 
still  bear  witness. 

Four  hours  steadily  up,  up.  Franz  does  not  urge 
his  horses  so  much  as  he  might.  The  nigh  horse  has 
no  conscience,  and  shirks  abominably  on  the  hills.  At 
last  I  venture  to  call  Franz's  attention  to  the  fact,  by  a 
few  ill-spoken  German  substantives  and  adjectives, 
with  never  a  verb  or  a  particle  to  hold  them  together. 
"  Ja,  ja,"  he  says,  with  unruffled  complacency ;  but 
pointing  to  the  poor  off  mare,  who  is  straining  every 
muscle  in  drawing  three  quarters  of  the  load,  "  she  is 
a  good  one;  she  can  pull,"  touching  her  up  smartly 
with  the  whip  at  the  same  time.  We  cross  the  Sal- 
zach,  which  grows  muddy  and  rough,  fighting  bravely 
to  bring  down  all  the  logs  it  can ;  we  leave  the  won- 
derful Diirrenberg  Mountain  with  its  three-galleried 
salt-mine,  and  we  march  steadily  out  towards  the  Tan- 
nengebirge,  which  looks  more  and  more  threatening 
every  minute.  Clouds  wheel  round  its  top.  We  know, 
though  we  try  not  to  believe,  that  storms  are  making 
ready :  they  never  look,  not  they,  to  see  who  or  what 
they  may  drown  or  hinder.  Down  the  rain  pours,  and 
we  dash  drij)ping  into  the  basement  story  of  the  inn  at 
Golling.  It  was  like  an  Italian  inn ;  carriages,  and  horses, 
and  donkeys,  and  dogs,  and  cocks,  and  peasants,  and 
hay,  and  grain,  and  dirt,  and  dampness,  all  crowded 


36  THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 

under  and  among  damp  arches  of  whitewashed  stone, 
with  only  two  ways  of  escape,  —  the  low,  broad  door 
through  which  we  had  driven  in,  and  the  rocky  stairs 
up  into  the  heart  of  the  house.  How  pitilessly  the 
rain  fell  I  Who  of  all  the  gods  cared  that  we  wanted 
that  evening  to  see  the  waterfall  of  the  Schwarzbach, 
the  finest  in  all  the  German  Alps,  and  that  if  we  did 
not  see  it  then  we  should  never  see  it,  because  early 
the  next  day  we  must  on  to  Gastein  ?  Still  it  rained. 
Why  should  one  not  see  a  waterfall  in  a  rain  ?  They 
would  not  put  one  another  out.  This  was  clearly  the 
thing  to  be  done.  Ah,  how  long  the  poor  damp  man, 
who  took  me  in  an  einspanner  to  see  that  waterfall, 
will  remember  the  smiling,  merciless  American,  who 
sat  silent,  unterrified,  and  dry,  behind  the  stout  leather 
boot,  and  went  over  meadow,  through  gate,  across 
stream,  up  gully,  in  the  midst  of  thunder  and  lightning 
and  whirling  sheets  of  rain,  and  never  once  relented  in 
her  purpose  of  seeing  the  Schwarzbach  I  Poor  fellow  ! 
he  shifted  from  puddle  to  puddle  on  his  low  seat,  look- 
ing furtively  at  me  to  see  if  I  really  meant  to  keep  on ; 
at  last,  in  a  climax  of  despair,  he  stood  up,  emptied  the 
cushion  of  water,  coiled  up  the  ends  of  the  stout  leath- 
er reins  edgewise  into  a  kind  of  circular  gridiron,  sat 
down  doggedly  on  it,  and  never  looked  around  again 
till  we  reached  the  end  of  the  road.  Here  his  triumph 
began ;  for  was  not  he  to  stay  warm  and  comfortable 
by  a  friend's  fire,  while  I  went  on  foot  the  rest  of  the 
way  to  the  waterfall  ?  This  I  had  not  understood  be- 
fore leaving  the  inn.     "  Was  it  very  far  ?" 

"  0  no,  not  far." 

I  never  saw  a  Tyrolese  man  or  woman  who  would 
say  that  a  place  was  far  off.  You  might  as  well  expect 
a  goat  or  a  chamois  to  know  distances.  "  0  no,  not 
far,  onl)'^  a  little,"  they  say ;  and  you  toil  and  toil  and 
toil,  and  sit  down  a  dozen  times  to  rest,  before  yon  are 
half-way  there.  However,  if  he  had  said  it  was  ever 
so  far,  I  should  have  kept  on. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


37 


"  There  was  a  path  ?  " 

"  0  yes  " ;  and  here  out  skipped  Undine  to  go  and 
show  it  to  me.  I  did  not  need  her,  for  there  wound 
the  prophetic  Httle  brown  path  very  plain  among  the 
trees ;  but  it  was  a  dehght  to  see  her  flitting  along  be- 
fore me.  Bare-footed,  bare-legged,  bare-headed,  bare- 
necked, bare-armed,  she  did  not  lack  so  very  much  of 
being  bare  all  over;  and  I  do  not  suppose  she  would 
have  minded  it  any  more  than  a  squirrel,  if  she  had  been. 
She  looked  back  pityingly  at  me,  seeing  how  much 
my  civilized  gear  hindered  me  from  keeping  up  with 
her,  as  she  sprang  from  tree-root  to  tree-root,  and 
hopped  from  stone  to  stone  in  the  water,  —  for  in  many 
places  the  path  was  already  under  water.  On  the 
right  hand  foamed  the  stream,  not  broad  but  deep,  and 
filled  with  great  mossy  boulders  which  twisted  and 
turned  it  at  every  step  :  on  the  left,  fir-trees  and  larch- 
es and  still  more  movssy  boulders.  Every  green  thing 
glistened,  and  trickled,  and  dripped ;  moss  shone  like 
silver :  and  bluebells  —  ah,  I  think  I  alone  know  just 
how  bluebells  manage  in  wet  weather!  Nobody 
else  ever  saw  so  many  in  one  half-hour  of  glorious 
rain. 

Soon  I  heard  the  voice  of  the  fall ;  a  sudden  turn  in 
the  path  and  I  saw  it ;  but  I  looked  for  the  first  few 
seconds  more  at  Undine.  She  stood,  poised  like  a  bird, 
on  an  old  tree-stump,  pointing  to  the  fall,  and  gazing 
at  me  with  an  expression  of  calm  superiority.  The 
longer  I  looked  the  more  inscrutable  seemed  the  water- 
fall, and  the  wiser  Undine,  till  I  felt  as  I  might  in  stand- 
ing by  the  side  of  Bolzoni  before  an  Egyptian  inscrip- 
tion. How  well  she  understood  it,  this  little  wild 
thing  as  much  of  kin  to  it  as  the  bluebells  or  the  pine- 
trees  !  But  while  I  looked  she  was  gone,  darting  up  a 
steep  path  to  the  left,  and  calling  me  to  follow.  There 
Avas  more,  'then  ?  Yes,  more.  0  wonderful  Schwarz- 
bach  Fall !  It  will  mean  little  to  people  who  read, 
when  I  say  that  it  shoots  out  of  a  cavern  in  two  dL'>- 


38  THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 

tinct  streams ;  they  blend  in  one,  which  falls  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  feet  between  craggy  rocks,  takes  a 
cautious  step  or  two,  wading  darkly  under  a  natural 
bridge  of  giant  rocks  and  pines,  and  then  leaps  ofl"  one 
hundred  and  seventy  feet  more  in  one  wide  torrent, 
with  veils  of  silver  threads  on  each  side,  and  a  never- 
ceasing  smoke  of  spray. 

Even  destiny  itself  winces  a  little  before  a  certain 
sort  and  amount  of  determination.  Finding  me  actu- 
ally face  to  face  with  the  waterfall,  and  as  thoroughly 
wet,  the  storm  stayed  itself  a  little,  and  rent  the  clouds 
here  and  there  for  me  to  look  off  into  the  grand  dis- 
tances. No  sunny  day  could  have  given  half  such  de- 
light. This  fall  is  supposed  to  be  an  overflow  from  the 
Lake  Konigsee,  in  Bavaria;  but  nobody  knows;  it 
hides  its  own  secret. 

Next  morning  we  kept  up  a  running  fight  with  the 
rain  through  the  Pass  Lueg,  past  the  great  gorge  Oefen, 
"  not  to  be  missed,"  said  Murray.  Neither  did  we 
miss  it,  clambering  down  and  in  under  umbrellas.  It  is 
an  uncanny  place,  where  thousands  of  years  ago  the 
Salzach  Eiver  cut  a  road  for  itself  through  mountains 
of  rock,  an^  never  went  back  to  see  what  it  had  left. 
Scooped  out  into  arched  and  moulded  hollows,  piled 
up  in  bridge  above  bridge,  damming  up  half  the  river 
at  a  time  and  then  letting  it  fly,  there  stand  the  giant 
rocks  to  this  day  only  half  conquered.  Yellow  timbers 
from  the  mountains  were  being  whirled  through,  now 
drawn  under  as  if  in  a  maelstrom,  now  shot  swift  as 
huge  arrows  over  ledges  of  slippery  dark  stone. 

In  the  Pass  Lueg  was  just  room  for  the  river  and  us; 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  shelves  of  plank  here  and 
there,  the  river  would  have  had  all  the  road.  This 
pass  is  called  the  "  Gate  of  the  Pongau."  A  very  hard 
gate  to  open  it  would  be  to  an  enemy,  for  the  solid 
rocky  sides  of  the  mountains  have  been  wrought  into 
fortress  w.ills  full  of  embrasures,  whose  guns  one  would 
think  must  be  worked  by  elf-men  in  the  heart  of  tlie ' 


THE    VALLEY  OF  G A  STEIN. 


39 


mountain,  so  little  foothold  seems  there  for  hmnan 
gunners. 

At  Werfen,  just  beyond  the  pass,  we  struck  the 
track  of  the  old  Salzburg  Archbishops  again :  the  great 
castle  of  Hohenwerfea,  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  up 
in  the  air,  on  a  wooded  crag  overhanging  the  Salzach 
Eiver,  was  another  of  their  strongholds,  and  was  used 
chiefly  for  a  prison,  being  within  easy  reach  of  one  of 
their  favorite  hunting-lodges,  in  the  Bliihnbachthal  val- 
ley, only  a  few  hours  back ;  so  when  they  were  tired  of 
hunting  chamois  at  Bliihnbachthal  they  could  ride 
down  to  Hohenwerfen  and  torture  a  few  Protestants. 
Now,  a  company  of  Austrian  sportsmen  owns  the 
lodge,  and  the  castle  of  Hohenwerfen  is  used  for  bar- 
racks of  Austrian  soldiers. 

At  Werfen  we  contracted  friendship  with  a  shoemak- 
er, who,  with  his  wife,  three  children,  and  three  ap- 
prentices, lives,  sleeps,  and  sews  in  one  stone  chamber, 
up  three  flights  of  stone  ladder,  a  few  doors  from  the 
inn.  I  can  recommend  him  as  a  good  man  who  will 
put  a  new  heel  to  an  old  boot  and  no  questions  asked. 

Just  beyond  Werfen  we  passed  a  panorama  of  mUl 
privilege  never  to  be  forgotten;  eight  tiny  browa 
wooden  mills,  one  close  above  the  other,  on  the  side 
of  a  hill,  and  the  white  stream  leaping  patiently  over 
wheel  after  wheel,  all  the  way  to  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  like  a  circus-rider  throu^  hoops.  What  could 
decide  men  bringing  grain  to  be  ground,  whether  to  go 
to  the  top  or  the  bottom  mill?  It  seemed  tiiat  the 
eighth  miller  up,  or  down,  must  stand  a  poor  chance 
of  business. 

From  Werfen  to  our  bedroom  at  Schwarzaeh  we  did 
not  cease  to  exclaim  at  the  beauty  of  the  fields  and  road- 
sides. Everybody's  house  looked  comfortable ;  every- 
body's wife  was  out  tying  up  wheat  or  pulling  flax; 
everybody  else  was  wearing  a  high  hat  and  feather  and 
a  broad  gay  belt,  and  sitting  in  the  sun  smoking; 
thougk  to  be  just,  we  did  see  here  and  there  an  odd- 


40 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


looking  man  at  -work.  Hollyhocks  ruled  the  gardens,  — 
superb  stalking  creatures,  black  and  claret,  and  white, 
and  rose-pink  and  canary-yellow,  —  and  all  as  double 
as  double  could  be.  Crowded  along  the  roadsides,  the 
forever  half-awake  bluebells  nodded  and  nodded  on 
their  wonderful  necks,  which  are  always  just  going  to 
break,  but  never  do.  Fields  of  hemp  we  saw,  and 
took  it  for  a  privileged  weed  until  we  were  told  better. 
Linseed  we  saw  too,  in  great  slippery  dark-blue  patch- 
es, and  in  the  midst  of  all  Franz  suddenly  reined  up  in 
front  of  the  Schwarzach  Inn. 

Ah,  that  Schwarzach  landlady !  She  little  dreamed 
how  droll  she  looked  as  she  stood  pompously  courtesy- 
ing  in  her  doorway,  with  her  broad-brimmed  black  felt 
hat  jammed  down  over  her  eyebrows  like  a  thatch. 
Her  figure  was  so  square  and  puffy,  it  looked  as  if  it 
had  feathers  inside,  and  was  made  to  be  sold  at  a  fair, 
to  stick  pins  in.  At  the  crease  of  her  waist  a  huge 
bunch  of  keys  bobbed  about  incessantly,  never  finding 
any  spot  where  they  could  lie  still.  Two  tables  full  of 
Schwarzach  men  with  beer  and  pipes,  and  two  lattice- 
work cages  of  hens  and  cocks,  we  passed  to  go  up  to 
the  first  floor  of  the  inn. 

O,  the  pride  of  the  pincushion  landlady  in  her  feath- 
er-beds, her  linen,  her  blankets,  her  crockery  I  She 
had  come  of  the  family  of  a  Herr  Somebody,  though  she 
did  keep  an  inn  and  serve  beer  to  peasants.  Her  fam- 
ily coat  of  arms  hung  in  my  bedroom,  opposite  a  muse- 
um in  a  cupboard  with  glass  doors.  The  contents  of 
this  museum  were  only  to  be  explained  on  the  suppo- 
sition that  they  were  the  aggregate  result  of  a  century 
of  Christmas-tree.  Not  an  article  in  the  protective 
tariff  of  the  United  States  but  had  been  wrought  into 
some  queer  shape  and  put  away  in  this  Schwarzach 
cupboard;  mysteries  of  wax,  glass,  china,  worsted, 
paper,  leather,  bone.  Most  distinctly  of  all  I  remember 
a  white  wax  face  stuck  on  top  of  an  egg-shell  painted 
red,  with  a  bit  of  green  fringe  for  neck,  anc^a  bit  of 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


41 


black  wood  for  a  leg.  This  impish  thing  grinned  at 
me  all  night. 

In  this  inn  is  a  table  round  which  the  leaders  of  the 
Protestant  peasants  met  in  1729  and  took  a  solemn 
oath  to  leave  the  country  rather  than  abandon  their 
new  faith.  If  the  Schwarzach  valley  were  as  cold  and 
dark  then,  as  it  was  at  the  sundown  we  saw  it  in,  I  can 
conceive  of  heavier  sacrifices  than  to  exchange  it  for 
any  possible  spot  in  Prussia,  Wiirtemberg,  or  North 
America,  to  which,  according  to  the  Gruide-Book,  the 
thirty  thousand  Protestants  fled. 

Next  day  sunshine  and  silver  tent  webs  all  along  the 
road  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

A  few  more  miles  to  the  west,  through  Lend,  a  smut- 
ty little  village  where  men  have  been  melting  gold  and 
silver  since  the  year  1538,  and  then  we  turned  sharply 
to  the  south,  to  climb  up  through  the  wild  "  Klamme  " 
to  the  valley  of  Gastein.  At  the  turn  we  met  a  royal 
messenger,  the  shining  river  Ache,  which  said,  "  Gro  up 
the  road  I  have  come.     I  left  Gastein  an  hour  ago." 

"  Less  than  an  hour  ago,  we  should  think,  0  stream, 
by  the  rate  at  which  you  travel,"  said  we,  as  we  en- 
tered the  pass  and  began  to  mount  slowly  up. 

Four  horses  now,  and  Franz  is  glad  if  we  all  walk. 
What  triumph  for  a  road  to  keep  foothold  on  these 
precipices !  "  Chiefly  schistous  limestone,"  whatever 
that  may  be,  Murray  says  that  they  are ;  but  they  look 
like  giant  strata  of  petrified  wood.  Small  bits  of  the 
stone  lie  in  your  hand  like  strips  of  old  drift-wood  and 
crumble  between  your  fingers  almost  as  readily;  so 
that  you  glance  uneasily  at  the  walls  of  it,  to  right  one 
thousand  feet  above  your  head,  and  to  left  one  thou- 
sand feet  more  of  walls  of  it,  down,  down  to  the  boil- 
ing river.  If  some  giant  were  to  give  a  stout  pinch  to 
a  ton  or  so  of  it  while  yon  pass,  it  would  be  bad. 

"  Dreadful  avalanches  here  in  spring,"  says  Franz. 

We  are  glad  it  is  August,  and  walk  faster.  The 
larches  and  bluebells  and  thyme  rock  away  undis- 


42  THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEI17. 

turbed,  however,  and  keep  the  chffs  green  and  bright 
and  spicy.  Here  is  heath,  too,  the  first  we  had  seen, 
fairest  of  lowly  blossoms,  with  tiny  pink  bells  in  stiff 
thick  rows  fringed  with  green  needle-points  of  leaves : 
it  crowds  the  thyme  out  and  makes  its  purple  look  dull 
and  coarse. 

The  Ache  seemed  to  us  a  most  riotous  river,  all 
through  the  Klamme.  We  never  dreamed  that  we 
were  looking  at  its  sober  middle  age,  and  that  it  had 
sown  its  wildest  oats  far  up  the  Gastein  valley. 

That  is  probably  one  reason  it  looks  so  mischievous 
all  through  the  pass.  It  knows  that  people  believe  it 
to  be  doing  its  best  leaping,  and  it  laughs  as  an  old 
woman  who  had  had  mad  triumphs  in  her  youth 
might  to  hear  herself  called  gay  at  fifty. 

It  was  through  this  Klamme  that  the  rich  and  haugh- 
ty Dame  Weitmoser  was  riding  one  day,  when  she 
refused  to  give  alms  to  an  old  beggar-woman  who 
stood  by  the  roadside. 

The  beggar-woman  cursed  her  to  her  face,  saying, 
"  You  shall  yourself  live  to  ask  alms." 

"  Ha,  that  is  impossible ;  as  impossible  as  that  I 
shall  ever  see  this  ring  again,"  replied  the  wicked  Frau 
Weitmoser,  drawing  from  her  finger  a  diamond  ring 
and  throwing  it  into  the  Ache.  Then  hitting  the  beg- 
gar-woman across  the  face  with  her  riding-whip,  she 
galloped  off. 

Three  days  later  Herr  Weitmoser,  sitting  at  the  head 
of  his  supper-table,  surrounded  by  a  party  of  friends, 
cut  open  a  large  trout  and  out  flew  his  wife's  diamond 
ring  and  rolled  across  the  table  towards  her.  Very 
pale  she  turned,  but  no  one  knew  the  reason.  From 
that  day  Herr  Weitmoser's  gold-mines  began  to  yield 
less  and  less  gold,  and  his  riches  molted  away,  until 
they  were  as  poor  as  the  poor  beggar-woman  who  had 
been  so  cruelly  treated  in  the  pass.  Legends  differ  as 
to  the  close  of  the  story,  some  killing  the  haughty, 
hard-hearted  woman  off,  in  season  for  Herr  Weitmoser 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


43 


to  marry  again  and  accumulate  another  fortune ;  others 
making  her  Uve  to  repent  in  her  bitter  poverty,  and, 
after  she  had  become  so  kind  and  benevolent  that  she 
shared  her  little  freely  with  her  fellow-poor,  giving 
back  to  them  tenfold  their  original  wealth.  At  any 
rate,  the  Herr  Weitmoser  is  buried  at  Hof-Gastein ;  for 
did  we  not  see  the  stone  effigy  of  him  on  a  slab  in  the 
little  church  ?  He  lies  flat  on  his  back,  in  puffed  sleeves 
and  enormous  boots,  and  two  of  his  gold-miners  stand 
guarding  him,  one  at  his  head  and  one  at  his  feet,  with 
lifted  hammers  in  their  hands. 

At  the  entrance  of  this  pass,  also,  is  the  chapel  of 
Ethelinda,  scene  of  a  still  wilder  story,  and,  better  than 
all,  one  which  is  believed  to  be  strictly  true.  In  the 
Hof-G-astein  church  is  a  picture  of  its  most  startling 
incidents,  and  there  is  not  a  peasant  within  ten  miles 
of  the  Klamme  but  will  tell  you  that  on  windy  nights 
can  still  be  heard  the  words  "  Ethelinda,"  "  Ethelinda," 
echoing  around  the  chapel  walls. 

Ethelinda  was  the  wife  of  another  of  the  rich  Weit- 
mosers,  who  owned  the  gold-mines  in  the  Radhaus- 
berg.  Men  are  alike  in  all  centuries.  When  Ethelinda 
died,  Ethelinda's  husband  shed  fewer  tears  than  did 
another  of  the  Weitmosers,  Christopher  by  name,  who 
had  loved  Ethelinda  long  and  hopelessly.  This  lover 
hid  himself  in  the  chapel  while  the  funeral  rites  were 
being  performed.  At  midnight  he  went  down  into  the 
vault  where  Ethelinda's  body  had  been  placed.  A  ter- 
rible thunder-storm  made  the  fearful  place  still  more 
fearful.  By  light  of  the  sharp  flashes  he  saw  the  face  of 
the  woman  he  loved.  He  bent  over  to  kiss  her.  As  he 
pressed  his  lips  to  hers  she  sighed,  opened  her  eyes, 
and  said,  "  Where  am  I  ?  "  But  before  either  of  them 
could  comprehend  the  terror  and  ecstasy  of  the  mo- 
ment, Ethelinda  exclaimed,  "  0  fly,  fly  for  help !  The 
pains  of  childbirth  are  upon  me!  Hasten,  or  it  will 
be  too  late !  " 

The  lov^  forgets  all  danger  to  himself  in  his  anguish 


44 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


of  fear  for  her,  and  bursts  breathless  into  the  husband's 
presence  with  the  incredible  news  that  his  buried  wife 
is  alive,  and  lying  in  travail  in  her  coffin,  in  the  chapeL 
Weitmoser's  first  impulse  is  to  slay  the  man  whose  tale 
so  plainly  reveals  him  as  lover  of  Ethelinda.  But  he 
thinks  better  of  it,  and,  hand  in  hand,  they  hurry  to 
the  chapel.  Angels  have  been  before  them,  and  suc- 
cored the  mother  and  child.  They  find  Ethelinda 
kneehng  on  the  altar  steps,  with  her  babe  in  her  arms. 
History  wisely  forbore  to  encumber  the  narrative  with 
any  details  of  how  embarrassing  it  was  for  them  all  to 
live  in  the  same  village  after  Ihis ;  but  in  the  same  lit- 
tle church  of  Hof-G-astein,  where  is  the  picture  of 
Ethelinda  ■  in  her  graveclothes,  kneeling  on  the  altar 
steps  holding  up  her  child  to  the  Virgin,  are  the  grave- 
stones of  Christopher  Weitmoser  and  his  wife  and 
children,  from  which  we  can  understand  that  time  had 
the  same  excellent  knack  then,  as  now,  of  curing  that 
sort  of  wound. 

The  Gastein  valley  reveals  itself  cautiously  by  instal- 
ments, being  in  three  plateaus.  Coming  out  on  the 
first,  and  seeing  a  little  hamlet  brooding  over  green 
meadows  before  us,  we  exclaimed,  "  Gastein,  0  Gas- 
tein I  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Franz,  contemptuously,  "  only 
Dorf  Gastein." 

We  wondered  and  were  silent.  Miles  farther  on, 
another  sharp  ascent  and  another  valley.  "  Surely  this 
is  Gastein  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  only  Hof-Gastein."  "We,  wondered  still 
more,  but  were  glad,  because  Hof-Gastein  is  white  and 
dusty  and  glaring.  The  houses  elbow  each  other  and 
are  hideous,  and  the  Ache  takes  a  nap  in  the  marshy 
meadows. 

Steadily  we  climbed  on ;  one  mile,  two  miles,  three 
miles,  up  hill.  Snow  mountains  came  into  view.  The 
Ache  began  to  caper  and  tumble.  Cold  air  blew  in  our 
faces;  this  was  the  noon  weather  of  Gasteia     Pink 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTRIN. 


45 


heath  bordered  the  road ;  bushes  of  it,  mats  of  it ;  i( 
seemed  a  sin  to  scatter  so  much  of  anything  so  lovely. 
Dark  fir  woods  stretched  and  met  over  our  heads , 
gleams  of  houses  came  through. 

"  Yes,  this  is  Gastein,"  said  Franz,  with  proud  em- 
phasis, whicli  meant,  "  Now  you  will  see  what  it  is  to 
mistake  any  other  place  for  Gastein." 

Sure  enough,  wise  old  proverb :  "  There  is  but  one 
Gastein." 

For,  knows  the  world  any  other  green  and  snow- 
circled  village  which  holds  a  waterfall  three  hundred 
feet  high  in  its  centre  ?  One  hesitates  at  first  whether 
to  say  the  waterfall  is  in  the  town,  or  the  town  in 
the  waterfall,  so  inextricably  mixed  up  are  they;  so 
noisy  is  the  waterfall  and  so  still  is  the  town.  Some 
of  the  houses  hang  over  the  waterfall ;  some  of  the 
threads  of  the  waterfall  wriggle  into  the  gardens.  The 
longer  you  stay  the  more  you  feel  that  the  waterfall  is 
somehow  at  the  bottom  of  everything.  From  one  side 
to  other  of  this  valley  an  arrow  might  easily  fly.  Both 
walls  are  green  almost  to  the  very  top  with  pastures 
and  fir  woods,  and  dotted  with  little  brown  houses, 
which  look  as  if  birds  had  taken  to  building  walled 
nests  on  the  ground  and  roofing  them  over.  To  the 
west  the  wall  is  an  unbroken  fine.  Behind  it  the  sun 
drops  early  in  the  afternoon  hke  a  plummet.  Sunset 
in  Gastein  is  no  affair  of  the  almanac.  Every  point 
has  its  own  calendar.  Long  after  Gastein  —  or  Bad- 
Gastein,  as  we  ought  to  begin  to  call  it  —  is  in  shadow, 
Hof-Gastein,  in  the  open  meadow  three  miles  below, 
is  yellow  with  the  sun.  To  the  east  and  south  are 
more  mounta,ins  and  higher,  but  not  in  range  with 
each  other,  —  the  Stiihle,  the  Radhausberg,  Ankogel, 
and  Gamskarkogel,  all  between  six  and  twelve  thou- 
sand feet  high.  Thus  the  view  from  the  west  side  of 
the  valley  has  far  more  beauty  and  variety.  There 
are  now  on  this  side  only  a  few  houses,  but  ultimately 
it  must  be  Gastein's  West  End. 


46  THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 

The  geologists,  who  know,  say  that  whero  now  are 
the  valleys  of  Gastein  and  Bockstein  were  once  two 
great  lakes,  which  the  earth  in  a  spasm  of  thirst  some 
day  gulped  down  at  a  swallow ;  all  but  the  water  of 
the  perverse  river  Ache,  which  would  not  be  swal- 
lowed. When  the  cold  water  went  in,  some  of  the 
pent-up  hot  water  jumped  at  the  chance  of  getting  out: 
hence  the  famous  hot  springs,  great  marvel  and  bless- 
ing of  Gastein. 

There  are  eighteen  of  these  hot  springs,  some  trick- 
ling slowly  from  the  rocks,  some  bubbling  out  in  the 
very  midst  of  the  cold  water  of  the  cascade.  They 
make  the  best  of  their  loopholes  of  escape,  coming  into 
town  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  thou- 
sand cubic  feet  every  twenty-four  hours.  The  water  is 
perfectly  colorless  and  tasteless ;  yet  the  list  of  sulphates 
and  chlorides,  etc.,  of  which  it  is  made,  is  a  long  one, 
numbering  nine  in  all.  The  recipe  is  an  old  one,  and 
probably  good,  though  it  sounds  formidable. 

The  legend  of  its  discovery  is,  that  in  the  year  680 
three  hunters,  following  a  wounded  stag,  found  him 
bathing  his  wounds  in  one  of  these  hot  springs,  whose 
vapor  attracted  their  attention.  A  little  later  the  Ro- 
mans, seeking  after  gold  and  silver,  penetrated  to  the 
valley  and  found  living  there  two  holy  men  named 
Primus  and  Felicianus.  This  was  in  the  days  of  Ru- 
pert, the  first  of  the  Salzburg  Archbishops.  Primus 
and  Felicianus  were  carried  prisoners  to  Rome  and 
thrown  to  the  lions  in  the  Coliseum.  But  they  still 
live  as  the  Patron  Saints  of  Gastein.  All  good  Catho- 
lics coming  to  be  cured  of  disease,  —  and  most  who 
come  are  good  Catholics,  —  invoke  the  prayers  of  Saints 
Primus  and  Felicianus,  and,  when  they  go  away,  leave 
grateful  record  in  the  chronicles  of  Gastein,  beginning; 
"  To  God  and  the  Saints  Primus  and  Felicianus  be 
thanks." 

The  Salzburg  Archbishops  kept  possession  of  the 
valley  until  late  in  the  seventeenth  century.     Then  it 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


47 


went  through  half  a  century  of  poHtical  and  rehgious 
warfares,  passing  from  the  Archbishops  to  other  rulers, 
then  to  Bavaria,  and  finally  to  Austria,  which  still  holds 
it.  There  is  an  Austrian  commandant  at  St.  Johann, 
an  Austrian  judge  at  Hof-Gustein,  and  at  Bad-Grasteia 
an  Austrian  bath  inspector  and  government  commis- 
sioner. 

But  still  the  church  holds  sway.  There  is  a  Eoman 
Catholic  curate  in  every  village,  a  magnificent  Catholic 
church  going  up  in  the  very  centre  of  Bad-Gastein,  and 
nobody  can  stay  two  days  in  the  town  without  being 
visited  by  the  sweet-voiced  Sisters  of  Charity  in  black, 
who  ask,  and  are  sure  to  get,  alms  for  the  poor  in  the 
name  of  Primus  and  Felicianus. 

Life  in  Gastein  begins  bewilderingly  for  the  newly 
arrived.  How  it  began  with  us  I  would  not  dare  to 
tell.  It  would  be  foolish  to  throw  away  one's  reputa- 
tion for  veracity  on  the  single  stake  of  an  utterly  in- 
credible statement  as  to  the  number  of  beds  one  had 
slept  in  in  forty-eight  hours.  But  not  the  most  expe- 
rienced and  cautious  traveller  in  the  world  can  be  sure 
of  escaping  an  experience  like  ours.  He  will  have 
telegraphed  beforehand  for  rooms,  having  read  in  his 
Murray  that  Wildbad-Gastein  in  August  is  so  crowded 
with  the  nobility  of  Russia,  Germany,  and  Austria  that' 
it  is  not  safe  to  go  there  without  this  precaution.  As 
he  steps  out  of  his  carriage  in  front  of  Straubinger's 
Hotel,  Gustav,  the  pompous  head-waiter,  will  wave 
him  back,  and  explain  with  much  flourish  that  there  is 
not  so  much  as  one  square  inch  of  unoccupied  room 
under  Straubinger's  roof,  but  that  he  can  have  for  one 
day  a  room  in  the  great  stone  Schloss  opposite.     At 

end  of  that  day  Lord  A is  coming   to  take  the 

apartment  for  a  month.     By  that  time  Count  B 

will  have  vacated  another,  Gustav  does  not  remember 
exactly  where,  but  he  can  have  it  for  a  few  hours ;  and 
then  when  the  Prince,  or  Duke,  or  Herr,  who  has 
claims  on  that  at  a  fixed  minute,  arrives,  he  can  move 


48  THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIM 

to  another  which  will  be  sure  to  be  vacant ;  or  if  it  is 
not,  he  can  go  to  sleep  at  Bockstein,  four  miles  farther 
up  the  valley,  or  at  Hof-Gastein,  three  miles  farther 
down. 

There  can  be  nothing  on  earth  like  the  problem  of 
lodging  at  Bad-Gastein  in  August,  except  jumping  for 
life  from  cake  to  cake  of  ice  in  the  Polar  Sea.  It  is  very 
exciting  and  amusing  for  a  time,  if  the  cakes  are  not 
too  far  apart.  In  the  mean  time,  you  eat  your  break- 
fast on  the  cake  where  you  have  slept,  your  dinner  on 
the  road  to  the  next  one,  and  your  tea  when  you  get 
there.  Very  good  are  the  breakfasts  and  teas  in  all 
these  lodging-houses,  served  by  smiling,  white-aproned 
housekeepers,  who  kiss  your  hand  in  token  of  alle- 
giance, and  bring  you  roses  and  forget-me-nots  on  your 
name  day,  if  they  happen  to  find  out  what  it  is.  Good 
butter,  milk,  raspberries,  strawberries,  blueberries,  figs, 
tomatoes,  grapes,  pears,  plums,  eggs,  —  all  these  you 
can  have  for  the  asking ;  bread  which  is  white  and  fine, 
and  which  they  think  delicious  who  have  not  com- 
muned with  Liebig  and  learned  to  ask  for  the  good, 
nutritious  bran.  But  with  the  milk  and  the  fruit,  and 
now  and  then  a  resolute  pull  at  the  native  black  bread, 
anise-seed  and  all,  one  can  breakfast  and  tea  happily. 
But  when  you  ask  for  dinner,  the  face  of  nature  changes. 
The  thing  called  dinner  you  can  eat  at  a  table  dhote 
in  the  hotels,  or  in  a  ca/e,  or  you  can  have  it  sent 
to  you  at  your  lodgings,  in  a  slippery  tower  of  small 
white  china  tubs,  which,  when  they  are  ranged  round 
you  on  your  table,  make  you  think  of  a  buttery  wash- 
ing-day. What  may  be  in  these  tubs.  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  try  to  describe.  Who  lives  to  dine  wo?'!d 
better  not  go  to  Gastein ;  in  fact,  who  cannot  get  aLag 
without  dining  would  better  stay  away.  He  who  is 
wise  will  fight  clear  of  the  hotels  and  caf^s,  make  inter- 
est with  his  landlady  to  give  him  a  sort  of  picnic  lunch 
at  noonday,  and  postpone  ideas  of  dinner  till  he  returns 
to  that  paradise  among  hotels,  the  Europa  at  Salzburg. 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


49 


These  hearty,  strong,  tireless  G-ermans,  who  chmb  a 
mountain  or  two  of  a  morning  for  summer  pleasure, 
find  it  nowise  unsatisfactory  to  stop  anywhere  on  the 
road,  and  eat  anything  for  dinner.  They  do  it  as  nat- 
urally as  goats  nibble  a  living  from  one  rock  to-day 
and  another  to-morrow.  They  are  better  off  than  we 
in  being  so  much  less  wedded  to  routine ;  but  it  is  a 
freedom  not  easy  to  acquire.  For  the  average  Ameri- 
can to  sleep  in  one  house,  breakfast  in  a  second,  dine  in 
a  third,  tea  in  a  fourth,  and  sleep  again  in  a  fifth,  seems 
to  turn  life  into  a  perpetual  passover,  not  to  be  endured 
many  weeks  at  a  time. 

Having  made  sure  of  a  breakfast,  and  that  Lord  A, 
B,  or  C  will  not  require  your  apartment  before  noon, 
you  go  out  to  look  G-astein  in  the  face,  hear  the  sound 
and  feel  the  heat  of  its  wonderful  waters. 

Water  to  right,  water  to  left,  cold  water,  warm 
water,  hot  water,  water  trickling  from  rocks,  water 
running  from  spouts,  water  boiling  out  of  sight  and 
sending  up  steam,  and  in  and  around  and  above  and 
beyond  everything  the  great  waterfall  thundering  down 
its  three  hundred  feet,  deafening  you  with  noise  how- 
ever far  you  go,  and  drenching  you  with  spray  if  you 
come  near. 

'■'■  O,  which  water  is  for  what  disease  ?  "  we  exclaim, 
curious  to  taste  of  all,  afraid  to  taste  of  any,  remember- 
ing Hahnemann,  whom  we  revere. 

"  Gro  to  Dr.  ProU,"  says  everybody.  "  He  is  the 
man  to  tell  you  all  about  G-astein.  He  knows  it  thor- 
oughly." 

Indeed  he  does.  He  may  be  said  to  have  Gastein 
by  heart. 

Between  nine  and  eleven  in  the  mornings  there  is  a 
chance  of  finding  Dr.  Proll  at  his  tiny,  odd,  three- 
roomed  office,  which  is  composed  of  equal  parts  of  bare 
rock  and  vapor-bath.  At  all  other  hours  of  the  day 
they  who  wish  to  see  him  must  watch  and  waylay  him 
as  sportsmen  do  game.     Each  man  you  ask  will  have 

3  D 


so 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


seen  him  just  the  minute  before,  running  rapidly  up  or 
down  some  hill,  but  you  will  be  wise  hot  to  attempt 
overtaking  him. 

Dr.  ProU  is  a  man  whom  it  belongs  to  Victor  Hugo 
to  describe.  Words  less  subtile  than  his  cannot  draw 
the  lines  of  a  nature  at  once  so  electric,  so  simple,  so 
pure,  so  wise,  so  enthusiastic,  so  gentle,  so  childlike,  so 
strong.  Reverently  I  ask  his  pardon  for  saying,  even 
at  this  distance,  this  much. 

On  the  table  in  the  room  where  Dr.  ProU  receives 
his  patients  stands  a  dingy  little  apparatus  at  sight  of 
which  one  idly  wonders,  —  a  magnetic  needle  swinging 
by  pink  floss  silk  under  a  low  oval  clock-case  of  glass, 
a  small  electrical  battery,  and  a  red  glass  vessel  half 
full  of  water.  These  are  the  silent  but  eloquent  wit- 
nesses which  tell  the  secret  of  the  naiad  of  Grastein. 
The  doctor's  blue  eyes  sparkle  with  eagerness  as  he 
immerses  the  battery  in  the  water  from  the  hot  spring, 
and,  connecting  the  wires  with  the  electrometer, 
watches  to  see  the  needle  move.  He  has  done  this 
perhaps  thousands  of  times,  but  the  thousandth  time 
and  the  first  are  alike  to  all  true  lovers  of  science,  —  to 
all  true  lovers  in  the  world,  for  that  matter. 

"  You  see  ?  you  see  ?  "  he  exclaims. 

Yes,  we  see  that  the  needle  swings  fifty  degrees. 
The  temperature  of  the  water  was  14°  Reaumur.  Then 
he  puts  the  battery  into  distilled  water  of  the  same 
temperature;  the  needle  swings  but  twenty  degrees, 
into  common  well-water,  same  temperature,  and  it 
swings  but  fifteen. 

"  Now  I  will  to  you  show  that  the  Gastein  water  is 
the  only  thing  in  this  world  over  which  time  has  no 
power,"  says  Dr.  Proll,  filling  the  red  glass  vessel  from 
another  bottle.  "  This  is  hot  spring  water,  one  year 
old.  It  would  be  the  same  if  it  were  one  hundred 
years  old.     Look !  " 

Yes,  the  needle  swings  fifty  degrees. 

"  And  now  remains  tlie  most  wonderful  experiment 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


51 


of  all.  I  will  show  you  how  a  very  little  of  this  magi- 
cal water  can  electrify  other  water,  just  as  one  electric 
soul  can  electrify  hundreds  of  commoner  natures." 

We  smile  at  this.  It  is  not  possible  in  the  first  mo- 
ment to  be  lifted  quite  to  the  heights  of  Dr.  ProU's 
enthusiasm.  But  wait !  Here  is  the  battery  in  com- 
mon boiled  water,  temperature  26°  Reaumur.  The  nee- 
dle moves  sluggishly,  barely  ten  degrees. 

"You  see?  you  see?  we  wiU  repeat;  all  experi- 
ments should  be  twice." 

Yes,  the  needle  moves  barely  ten  degrees. 

"  Now  we  will  turn  in  an  equal  quantity  of  hot  spring 
water  two  years  old,  temperature  the  same.  Look! 
look  !  "  exclaims  the  doctor,  clasping  his  hands  in  the 
deUght  of  the  true  experimenter. 

Sure  enough.  The  heavy  boiled  water  is  electrified 
into  new  life.     The  needle  swings  forty  degrees ! 

"  And  this  is  why  I  say  that  the  water  of  Gastein  is 
the  water  for  souls,"  continues  the  doctor,  lifting  out 
the  battery  with  unconscious  lovingness  in  his  touch ; 
"  And  this  is  why  I  say  in  my  book  on  G-astein,  that 
these  baths  are  the  baths  of  eternal  youth ;  and  this  is 
why  an  old  physician,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago, 
wrote  a  little  poem,  in  which  he  makes  the  naiad  of 
Gastein  say  to  the  invalids, 

"If  I  cannot  please  all 
And  cannot  bring  health  to  alli 
That  is  common  to  me  and  God. 
Where  there  lingers  in  the  blood 
The  poison  of  sin  and  passion  in  the  soul, 
There  can  enter  neither  God  nor  I." 

One  is  a  little  sobered  by  all  this.  It  is  nearer  to  the 
air  of  miracles  than  we  commonly  come.  Under  the 
impressive  silent  pointing  of  this  magnetic  needle-fin- 
ger, we  listened  with  grave  faith  to  the  account  of  the 
effect  of  these  waters  on  wilted  flowers.  This  is  a  curi- 
ous experiment,  often  tried.  Flowers  which  are  to  all 
appearance  dead,  if  thej  arc  left  for  three  days  in  this 


52 


THE    VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


warm  water  hold  up  their  heads,  regain  shape,  color, 
fragrance,  and  Hve  for  several  days  more.  No  won- 
der that  old  madman  Paracelsus  thought  he  had  dis- 
covered in  the  G-astein  waters  the  elixir  of  life.  No 
wonder  that  to-day  the  sweet  wild  paths  of  G-astein 
are  crowded  with  old  men  seeking  to  be  made  young, 
or,  at  least,  to  be  saved  from  growing  older. 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,  though,"  says  dear,  true- 
hearted  Dr.  Proll,  —  "  it  is  a  strange  thing,  but  in  all 
these  twenty  years  never  has  one  woman  come  to  me 
to  be  made  young.  Every  year  come  many  men, 
praying  that  they  may  not  grow  old;  but  never  yet 
one  woman." 

Ah,  we  thought,  perhaps  the  women  are  less  honest 
than  the  men,  and  do  not  tell  their  motives. 

But  there  is  not  time  to  grow  very  superstitious  over 
these  tales  of  magic,  for  there  is  so  much  else  to  be 
seen.  In  the  rear  room  of  the  office  is  the  hot-vapor 
bath;  through  a  hole  in  the  floor  up  comes  the  hot 
steam,  heated  no  human  being  can  tell  how  far  down 
in  the  heart  of  the  earth  ;  night  and  day  the  fires  go ; 
for  twelve  hundred  years  the  bath  has  been  standing 
ready  to  steam  people.  Over  the  hole  in  the  floor  is  a 
mysterious  wooden  structure,  looking  like  a  combina- 
tion of  pillory  and  threshing-machine.  In  five  minutes, 
the  doctor  has  shown,  by  a  series  of  slippings  and  fit- 
tings and  joinings,  how,  for  every  possible  disease,  every 
mentionable  part  of  the  body  can  be  separately  steamed, 
inch  by  inch,  till  one  is  cooked  well.  He  wound  up 
with  imploring  me  to  put  my  ear  to  the  end  of  a  long, 
narrow,  wooden  pipe  which  he  screwed  on  the  appa- 
ratus.    "  This  is  sure  cure  for  deafness,"  he  said. 

I  leaped.  I  should  think  it  might  be.  In  that  sec- 
ond I  had  heard  scouring  through  my  brain  all  sorts  of 
noises  from  spheres  unknown.  The  ear-trumpet,  which 
Hood's  old  woman  bought,  and,  "  the  very  next  day, 
heard  from  her  husband  at  Botany  Bay,"  was  nothing 
to  it.     The  doctor  could  not  understand  why  I  should 


THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


53 


shrink  so  from  listening  to  this  wild  rush  of  scalding 
steam  from  the  earth's  middle.  He  would  have  been 
shocked  to  know  that,  to  my  inexperience,  it  seemed 
nothing  less  than  a  speaking-tube  from  the  infernal 
regions. 

JBut  we  went  nearer  yet  to  the  central  fires.  Up, 
up  a  winding  path,  shaded  and  made  sweet  like  all 
Gastein's  paths  by  fir-trees,  mosses  and  heath,  and 
bluebells ;  and  there,  sunk  in  the  solid  rock,  was  a  pol- 
ished iron  gate.  A  peasant-woman  keeps  the  key  of 
this,  and  gets  a  little  daily  bread  by  opening  it  for 
strangers.  She  brought  suits  of  stout  twilled  cloth  for 
us  to  wear ;  but  we  declined  them,  having  learned  in 
the  salt-mines  of  Hallein  that,  the  inside  of  the  earth 
being  much  cleaner  than  the  outside,  it  is  aU  nonsense 
to  take  such  precautions  about  going  in.  A  poor  sick 
man  who  was  painfully  sitting  still  on  a  bench  near 
the  gate,  seeing  our  preparations,  came  up  and  asked  to 
join  our  party.  I  fancied  that  he  had  a  desire  to  get  a 
little  nearer  to  the  head-quarters  of  cure,  and  reassure 
himself  by  a  sight  of  the  miraculous  spring.  The  peas- 
ant-woman went  on  before,  carrying  a  small  lantern, 
which  twinkled  like  a  very  little  good  deed  in  the 
worst  of  worlds.  The  passage  was  very  narrow  and 
low.  Overhead  were  stalactites  of  yellow  and  white  ; 
the  walls  dripped  ceaselessly ;  the  path  was  stony  and 
wet.  Hotter  and  hotter  it  grew  as  we  went  on.  How 
much  farther  could  we  afford  to  go,  at  such  geometri- 
cal ratio  of  heat  ?  we  were  just  beginning  to  ask,  when 
the  woman  turned  and,  setting  down  her  lantern, 
pointed  to  the  spring.  It  was  a  very  small  stream, 
running  out  of  the  rock  above  her  head  fast  enough  to 
fill  a  cup  in  a  very  few  seconds,  and  almost  boiling  hot. 
We  all  put  our  fingers  solemnly  in  and  solemnly  put 
them  to  our  lips ;  the  woman  nodded  and  said,  "  Good, 
good  "  ;  crossing  herself,  I  suppose  in  the  name  of  the 
good  Saints  Primus  and  Felicianus,  she  led  the  way 
out.    I  felt  like  crossing  myself  too.    High-temperature 


54 


THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


underground  places  are  singularly  uncanny,  and  give 
one  respect  for  the  old  mythology's  calculation  of  the 
meridian  of  Tartarus. 

For  rainy  days  —  and  those  are,  must  we  own  it  ? 
seventeen  out  of  every  thirty  in  Gastrin  —  there  is  a 
most  curious  provision  in  the  shape  of  a  long  glass  gal- 
lery, four  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and  twelve  wide. 
Here  the  noble  invalidism  and  untitled  health  and  cu- 
riosity may  walk,  read,  smoke,  eat,  trade,  and  sleep 
too,  for  aught  I  know.  It  is  the  oddest  of  places ;  so 
many  hundred  feet  of  conservatory,  with  all  sorts  of 
human  plants  leaning  against  its  sides,  in  tilted  chairs ; 
I  never  grew  weary  of  walking  through  it,  or  flattening 
my  nose  against  its  panes  just  behind  the  aristocratic 
shoulders  of  his  Highness  the  Grand  Chamberlain  of 

,  as  he  sat  reading  some  court  journal  or  other.    A 

little  room  at  the  end  holds  a  piano  and  two  tables 
covered  with  a  species  of  literature  which  was  new  to 
me,  but  which  all  Gastein  seemed  to  feed  and  subsist 
on,  that  is,  the  lists  of  all  the  visitors  at  all  the  baths 
and  watering-places  in  Europe.  Pamphlet  after  pam- 
phlet, they  arrived  every  few  days,  corrected  and 
annotated  with  care,  the  silliest  and  most  meaning- 
less census  which  could  be  imagined.  But  eager 
women  came  early  to  secure  first  reading  of  them, 
and  other  women  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  fortunate 
possessor  of  the  valuable  news  sat  waiting  for  their 
turn  to  come.  This  room  is  exclusively  for  women ; 
opening  out  of  it,  in  continuation  of  satire  on  their 
probable  requirements,  is  a  confectioner's  shop ;  next 
comes  the  general  reading-room,  where  are  all  the  con- 
tinental journals  of  importance ;  next  a  long,  empty 
room  for  promenading,  where  your  only  hindrance  will 
be  the  appealing  looks  from  venders  of  fancy  wares, 
who  have  their  glass  cases  in  a  row  on  one  side ;  then 
comes  the  covered  walk,  also  four  fifths  glass,  on  the 
bridge  over  the  waterfall ;  and  then  comes  the  Strau- 
binger  Platz,  the  smallest,  busiest,  noisiest,  most  pom- 


THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


55 


pous  little  Platz  in  the  world;  one  side  hotel,  three 
sides  lodging-house,  and  all  sides  waterfall ;  lodgers 
and  loungers  incessantly  walking  to  and  fro,  or  sitting 
on  benches  taking  coffee,  and  staring  listlessly  at  other 
lodgers  and  loungers ;  booths  of  fruit ;  booths  of  photo- 
graphs ;  booths  of  flowers;  booths  of  shoes;  booths  of 
inconceivable  odds  and  ends,  which  nobody  thought  of 
wanting  before  they  came  in,  but  which  everybody 
will  buy  before  they  go  out,  and  will  wish  they  had 
not  when  they  come  to  pack  ;  here,  every  day,  come 
bare-kneed  hunters,  bringing  warm,  dead  chamois  slung 
on  their  shoulders  ;  black  and  yellow  Eilwagens  drive 
up  with  postilions  in  salmon  and  blue,  wearing  big 

brass  horns  at  their  sides ;  Madame  the  Countess , 

dressed  with  blue  silk  trimmed  with  point  lace,  sits  un- 
der a  white  fringed  sunshade,  on  a  chair  in  front  of 

Straubinger's  Hotel ;  and  Madame  the  Frau sits, 

barefooted,  bareheaded,  opposite  her,  selling  strawber- 
ries at  eight  kreutzers  a  tumblerful,  and  knitting  away 
for  dear  life  on  a  woollen  stocking ;  all  this  and  "much 
more  in  a  little  square  which  can  be  crossed  in  ten 
steps.  It  is  like  a  play;  once  seated,  you  sit  on  and 
on,  unconsciously  waiting  for  the  curtain  to  fall:  on 
your  right  hand  is  the  orchestra,  ten  pieces,  who  play 
wild  Tyrolese  airs  very  well,  and  add  much  to  the  dra- 
matic effect  of  things.  Sunset  is  the  curtain  for  this 
theatre,  and  dinner  the  only  enter'  acte.  The  instant 
the  sun  drops,  the  players  scatter,  the  booths  fold  up ; 
Madame  the  Countess  sweeps  off  into  the  hotel ;  Ma- 
dame the  Frau  rolls  up  her  knitting,  cautiously  mixes 
together  her  fresh  and  her  old  strawberries,  and  starts 
off  brave  and  strong  to  mount  to  hef  chamber  m  the 
air,  miles  up  on  some  hill. 

This  play  grows  wearying  to  watch  sooner  than  one 
would  suppose.  After  a  few  days,  one  finds  that  all 
the  climbing  roads  and  paths  lead  to  better  things. 
There  are  the  Schiller-Holie,  the  Cafe  Vergissmeinnicht, 
the  Kaiser  Friedrichs  Laube  (where  the  Emperor  Fred- 


56 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


erick  III.  took  baths  four  centuries  ago; ;  the  Pyrker- 
Hohe,  named  after  the  patriarch  of  Erlau,  the  poet 
Pyrker  ;  the  Rudolfs-Hohe,  the  Windischgratz-Hohe, 
and  many  more  cafds  or  summer-houses  on  shining 
heights,  all  of  which  give  new  views  of  the  wonderful 
G-astein  valley,  and  at  all  of  which  whoever  is  German 
eats  and  drinks.  The  lure  of  a  table,  a  chair,  and  a 
beer-mug  seems  a  small  reward  to  hold  out,  when  for 
every  additional  mile  that  is  walked  a  new  world  opens 
to  the  eye,  but  the  Germans  see  better  through  smoke 
and  beer-colored  glasses. 

Strong  adventurous  people,  who  can  walk  and  climb 
without  reckoning  distances  by  aching  muscles,  have 
unending  delights  set  before  them  for  every  day  in 
Gastein. 

In  the  Kolshachthal  are  four  thousand  chamois. 
Every  summer  come  royal  hunting  parties  to  Hof-Gas- 
tein,  and  they  who  follow  them  may  see  chamois  fly- 
ing for  their  lives ;  poor  things,  so  helpless  in  spite  of 
all  their  marvellous  speed  and  spring. 

Then  there  is  the  lofty  plateau  of  Nassfeld,  the  old 
"  Wet  Field "  mentioned  in  Roman  history.  From 
this  can  be  seen  a  great  amphitheatre  of  glaciers  and 
the  passage  by  the  Malnitzer-Tauern  into  Carinthia: 
this  dangerous  pass  has  an  ineffable  charm,  from  the 
fact  that  it  is  one  of  the  only  two  ways  out  of  the  smil- 
ing Gastein  valley.  Once  in,  should  any  chance  de- 
stroy the  road  in  that  wild  Klamme  through  which  the 
fierce  Ache  goes  and  you  came,  you  have  no  possible 
way  of  escape,  except  on  foot  or  on  horseback,  by  the 
Malnitzer-Tauern. 

After  the  Nassfeld  come  the  old  gold-mines  in  the 
Radhausberg,  where  the  old  Weitmosers  made  and  lost 
their  fortunes,  and  every  stone  has  its  legend :  the 
Bookhardt  Mountain,  with  a  poisoned  lake  in  which 
no  fish  can  swim,  near  which  no  bird  can  fly  and  no 
flower  can  grow ;  tlie  valley  Anlaufthal,  on  one  side 
of  which  rises  the  royal  hill  Ankogel,  eleven  thousand 


THE  VALLEY  OF  GASTRIN. 


57 


feet  high,  and  called  the  Eldorado  of  mineralogists; 
and  last,  because  greatest,  the  snow-topped  mountain 
Gamskarkogel,  The  Righi  of  Austria,  which  looks  down 
upon  more  than  one  hundred  glaciers. 

All  this  and  more  for  well  people.  As  for  sick  peo- 
ple their  tale  is  soon  told,  either  here  or  elsewhere. 
Hood's  definition  of  medicine  was  exhaustive.  In 
Gastein,  however,  little  is  done  with  spoons ;  people 
go  into  their  medicine,  instead  of  its  going  into  them. 
Nobody  takes  but  one  bath  a  day;  the  stronger  inva- 
lids take  it  in  the  morning  before  breakfast,  and  are 
allowed  to  go  their  ways  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  The 
weaker  ones  take  it  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  lie 
in  bed  for  an  hour  after  it,  then  eat  dinner,  then  are 
commanded  to  dawdle  gently  about  out  of  doors  until 
one  hour  before  sunset,  after  which  they  are,  upon  no 
excuse  whatever,  to  leave  the  house.  There  are  they 
who  drink  mineral  waters  from  Bockstein,  drink  whey, 
drink  goats'  milk,  eat  grapes,  eat  figs,  all  for  cure.  They 
all  look  tired  of  being  ill ;  and  they  all  give  a  semi- 
professional  and  inquisitive  stare  at  each  new-comer, 
as  if  they  were  thinking,  "  Ha,  he  looks  as  if  he  had  it 
worse  than  I !  "  Poor  souls.  It  seems  a  considerable 
price  to  pay  for  the  rush-candle,  to  keep  it  burning  un- 
der such  difficulties  and  restrictions. 

In  a  little  pamphlet  written  by  Dr.  Proll  upon  Gas- 
tein are  some  explicit  directions  as  to  the  proper  course 
to  be  pursued  by  all  invalids  who  hope  to  be  cured  by 
the  Gastein  waters.  Reading  them  over,  one  smiles, 
quietly,  wondering  if  careful  following  out  of  such  di- 
rections would  not  be  of  itself  suflScient  cure  for  most 
ailments. 

"Before  arriving  at  Gastein,  visit  all  such  places, 
cities,  mountains,  mines,  as  you  would  wish  to  see. 

"  Also  close  up  all  your  most  annoying  or  engrossing 
business  affairs." 

Among  the  "  leading  conditions  of  success  in  the  use 
of  the  baths,"  he  enumerates, 
3* 


58  THE  VALLEY  OF  GASTRIN. 

"  A  cheerful,  amiable,  and  contented  disposition," 
and 

"  Implicit  obedience  to  the  physician  "  ;  and  adds 
that,  after  the  treatment,  there  must  be,  during  a  pe- 
riod of  from  three  to  twelve  weeks, 

"  Mental  tranquillity. 

"  No  business  nor  bodily  fatigue. 

"  No  long  walks  nor  climbings. 

"  No  reraedials,  internal  nor  external ;  a  tepid  bath 
once  a  week,  but  no  other  bath !  " 

But  from  the  days  of  the  Archbishops  until  now,  it 
seems  to  have  been  held  especially  incumbent  on  all 
persons  coming  to  these  baths  for  help  to  come  with 
quiet  souls  and  pure  consciences.  The  first  volume  of 
the  "  Chronicles  of  G-astein  "  is  black  and  battered  and 
yellow  as  an  old  monkish  missal.  More  than  half  of 
the  writing  is  entirely  illegible  ;  but  clear  and  distinct 
on  its  first  page  stands  out  the  motto,  written  there  in 
1681,  and  copied,  I  believe  from  the  bath  of  some  Ko- 
man  Emperor,  — 

"  Curanim  vacuus  hunc  adeas  locum 
Ut  morborum  vacuum  abire  queas 
Non  enim  curatur  qui  curat." 

Which  good  advice  freely  translated,  would  be  some- 
thing like  this,  "  Whoever  comes  here  to  be  cured  must 
leave  his  cares  at  home ;  for  if  he  worries  he  will  never 
get  well." 

These  "  Chronicles  of  G-astein "  are  a  never-failing 
source  of  amusement.  There  are  fifteen  volumes  of 
them,  written  by  the  invalids  themselves,  from  1680 
until  now.  The  records  are  written  in  old  Latin,  old 
German,  old  French,  all  more  or  less  illegible,  so  that 
there  is  (Midless  interest  in  groping  among  them  on  the 
thousandth  chance  of  finding  something  that  can  be 
deciphered.  The  books  are  carefully  kept  at  the  curfs 
house,  and  the  volume  for  1809  is  quite  a  grand  afl'air, 
havingf  a  mysterious  locked  brass  box  in  one  of  the 


THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 


59 


covers.  This  is  to  receive  the  contributions  of  charita- 
ble people  who  are  not  sick,  and  of  sick  people  who 
are  superstitious  and  wish  to  propitiate  the  good  Saints 
Primus  and  Felicianus. 

The  box  has  the  following  inscription  :  — 

"  For  the  support  of  the  school,  and  of  the  poor  of 
both  churches  of  the  holy  Primus  and  Felicianus,  and 
the  holy  Nicholas  church  at 

Wildbad-Gastein. 

In  order  that  the  Almighty  God  may  bless,  by  the 
prayers  of  those  holy  patrons  of  the  Bath,  the  noble 
gift  of  the  health-giving  spring  to  all  the  patients." 

There  are  many  most  curious  entries  in  these  chron- 
icles, and  no  one  can  look  through  them  without  being 
impressed  by  the  singular  unanimity  of  testimony, 
during  two  hundred  years,  to  the  efiicacy  of  the 
waters.  Here  and  there,  however,  a  discontented  soul 
has  written  out  his  grumblings ;  as,  for  instance,  one 
Count  Maximilian  Josepli,  Chamberlain  of  the  King  of 
Bavaria,  who  wrote  on  the  4th  of  July,  1747,  in  very 
cramped  and  crabbed  old  French :  "  Reader,  greeting  I 
May  God  preserve  you  from  the/owr  elements  of  this 
country  which  are  all  equally  wonderful,  even  the  en- 
nui " ;  and  an  unknown  grumbler  of  the  English  na- 
tion, one  hundred  and  five  years  later,  who  was  too 
courteous  or  too  politic  to  sign  his  name  to  this  coup- 
let,— 

"  Drenched  with  fountain,  bath,  and  rain, 
God  knows  if  I  've  been  drenched  in  vain." 

In  1732  Ludovic  Frierfund  wrote :  "  The  fourth  of 
July  I  began  to  use  these  baths.  Now  I  am  so  much 
better,  I  believe  I  shall  regain  my  health."  (15th 
July.) 

A  few  days  later  the  grateful  Baroness  Anna  Sophia, 
of  Gera,  writes :  "  To  God  and  the  two  patron  saints 


6o  THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN. 

Primus  and  Felicianus  shall  be  the  greatest  thanks  tbat 
I  have  used  for  the  second  time  these  blessed  baths." 

In  1752  the  Countess  Anna  Maria  Barbara  Christia- 
na, of  Ronigs,  declared :  "  I  have  finished  this  cure 
with  the  aid  of  God,  and  the  Holy  Mother,  and  the 
two  saints  Primus  and  Felicianus,  and  depart  in  full 
health  on  the  17th  of  July." 

In  1830  Babette  Brandhuber,  may  her  soul  rest  in 
peace  I  left  on  one  of  the  pages  of  the  chronicle  a  little 
German  verse,  of  which  this  is  almost  a  literal  transla- 
tion :  — 

"  0  holy  spring  and  friendly  vale, 
I  came  here  full  of  pain ! 
My  full  heart  writes  this  grateful  tale, 
I  leave  thee  well  again." 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  there  have  been  in  Gasteiii 
two  or  three  Americans  and  English  less  poeticallj 
gifted  than  Babette,  who  have  filled  several  pages  of 
this  volume  with  rhymes  for  which  one  blushes. 

The  two  best  things  I  found  were  a  little  record  of 
one  "  Ruf,  a  money-changer  of  Munich,"  who,  proba- 
bly in  a  half-defiant  display  of  his  unpoetical  calling, 
left  only  that  signature  to  this  couplet :  — 

"  TO  THE  NAIAD  OF  GASTEIN. 

"A  kiss  from  woman's  lips  brings  luck: 
I  kissed  thee  and  am  well." 

And  the  following  French  verses.  The  author's  name 
seems  to  have  been  purposely  written  so  that  no 
human  being  can  decipher  it,  though  the  date  is  so 
recent.  But  the  handwriting  is  evidently  that  of  a 
woman :  — 

"  AUX  BAIGNEURS. 

"  Savez-vous  qu'et  est  &  Gastein 

Ou  vous  baignez  pleins  d'esperance  ? 
Mes  chers  amis,  j'en  suis  certain 
C'est  la  foutaiiie  de  jouveuce. 


THE   VALLEY  OF  GASTEIN.  6 1 

•'  Dans  ses  eaux  jettez  une  fleur, 
Rose  depuis  long  temps  fl^trie; 
Bientot  fraicheur,  parfum,  couleur 
A  la  rose  rendront  la  vie. 

*'  Ainsi  puis  qu'on  pent  y  gagner 
De  quoi  prolonger  I'existence; 
Amis,  venez  souvent  baigner 
A  la  fontaine  de  jouvence." 

(20th  July,  1820.) 

Half  a  century  ago !  Youth  and  hope  are  over  for 
her  by  this  time  ;  though  perhaps  youth  and  hope  are 
just  beginning  for  her  by  this  time,  —  the  true  youth, 
the  immortal  hope ;  but  whether  she  be  to-day  old  oa 
earth  or  young  in  heaven,  I  fancy  her  all  the  same, 
cherishing  in  her  heart  the  memory  of  the  rare,  beau- 
tiful, blessed,  dear  Gastein  valley. 

Qastuna  tantum  una  I 


THE   AMPEZZO    PASS    AND    THE    HOUSE 
OF   THE   STAR   OF   GOLD. 

OUR  month's  voyaf»e  of  Venice  had  come  tO'  an 
end.  We  had  said  so  many  times  to  each  other 
in  the  mornings^  "  We  must  go,"  that  the  meaningless 
declaration  had  come  to  be  received  with  bursts  of 
laughter,  and  nobody  dared  say  it  any  more.  Never- 
theless it  was  true :  people  who  meant  to  summer  in  the 
Tyrol  must  not  spend  the  whole  of  June  in  Venice. 
Silent,  sad,  beautiful  Venice,  how  did  our  eyes  cling  to 
thy  spires^  as  looking  backward  from  the  railway  car- 
riage we  saw  them  slowly  go  down  in  the  pale  water. 
That  one  can  leave  Venice  by  rail  seems  the  most  in- 
credible thing  in  life.  At  the  first  turn  of  the  wheels 
and  snort  of  the  engine  we  began  to  doubt  whether 
the  city  had  been  real ;  the  first  sight  of  green  land 
was  bewildering;  and  when  at  the  first  station  we  saw 
wheeled  carriages  waiting  for  people,  we  were  struck 
dumb.  What  a  gigantic  and  agile  creature  did  the 
horse  appear  f  and  what  a  marvel  of  beautiful  solidity 
the  level  earth,  brown  under  foot,  and  full  of  locust 
hedges  and  pink-blossomed  trees!  It  is  no  small  proof 
of  the  subtile  spell  of  that  wonderful  city  of  water  and 
stone,  slowly  sinking  at  anchor,  that  one  month's  life 
on  its  bosom  is  enough  to  make  all  other  living  seem 
unnatural. 

We  eren  felt  dull  misgivings  about  the  Tjnrol,  and 
the  dolomite  mo'untains  of  the  grand  Ampezzo  Pass 
through  which  we  were  to  pass  to  reach  it.  Never- 
theless, "  Ampezzo  Pass  "  was  so  stamped  upon  our 
whole  bearing,  tliat,  as  soon  as  we  stepped  out  of  the 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS.  63 

carriage  at  Conegliano,  we  were  taken  possession  of  by 
screaming  vetturini,  each  man  of  whom  possessed  the 
very  best  carriage  and  the  very  best  horses,  and  was 
himself  the  very  best  guide  in  Coneghano!  O  the 
persistence,  the  superhuman  persistence,  of  an  Italian 
with  a  hope  of  money !  Into  the  inn,  into  our  very 
bedchamber,  followed  the  man  who  spoke  loudest  and 
fastest. 

Sixty  francs  a  day !  0  that  was  very  little.  The 
ladies  would  not  find  any  other  man  to  go  for  so  small 
a  price.  And  his  horses  I  If  we  could  but  see  his 
horses  I 

How  energetic  gr6w  our  Italian!  We  would  not 
give  sixty  francs  a  day,  and  we  wished  to  be  alone. 
The  dilemma  became  embarrassing.  Women,  even  if 
they  be  American,  even  if  they  be  three  in  number, 
cannot  put  a  man  out  of  a  room  by  main  force ;  but  at 
last  moral  force  prevailed,  and  he  went  surlily  away. 
We  took  counsel ;  it  was  nearly  dark ;  we  wished  to 
begin  our  journey  early  the  next  morning;  no  doubt 
this  vetturino  would  inform  his  fellows,  and  they  would 
combine  and  agree  ;  but  sixty  franks  a  day  was  a  most 
exorbitant  price  for  a  carriage  and  two  horses;  we 
would  not  pay  it;  we  could  go  by  rail  to  Inspruck, 
and  give  up  the  Ampezzo  Pass.  Sadly  the  two  who 
knew  the  least  Italian  set  forth  on  errand  of  research 
among  other  vetturini.  There  is  surprising  advantage 
sometimes  in  conducting  such  bargains  in  a  language 
which  you  do  not  understand.  Armed  with  a  few  sim- 
ple phrases  stating  time,  sum,  distance,  and  obstinately 
reiterating  them,  ignorance  will  sometimes  conquer  by 
virtue  of  its  very  incapacity. 

We  had  barely  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  inn, 
when  the  same  fierce-mouthed  man  sprang  upon  us. 

"  Go  away.  We  do  not  want  you.  We  will  not 
take  you." 

Go  away,  indeed!  as  well  dismiss  our  shadow! 
Bowing,  gesticulating,  falling  back,  and  then  overtak- 


64  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

ing,  all  the  while  talking  like  a  macaw,  he  kept  on  all 
«ides  of  us,  that  man  of  Conegliano.  At  last  he  sur- 
^■endered.  That  is,  he  said  meekly,  "  What  will  the 
ladies  give?" 

The  moment  he  said  that,  we  knew  the  day  was 
ours.  Now  came  my  hour  of  success.  I  gUbly  said 
my  lesson,  "  Forty  francs  a  day.     No  more !  " 

A  voluble  reply  ten  minutes  long,  with  heart-rend- 
ing gestures. 

"  I  do  not  understand  Italian.  Forty  francs  a  day. 
No  more." 

Fifteen  minutes  more  of  volubihty,  appealing  gri- 
mace, and  gesture. 

"  I  do  not  understand  one  word  I  Forty  francs  a  day. 
No  more ! " 

Our  man  fell.  He  would  go  for  forty  francs  a  day, 
this  father  of  a  family  who  had  assured  us  with  stream- 
ing eyes  that  his  children  would  die  of  hunger  if  he 
went  for  less  than  sixty  I 

Once  having, accepted  our  terms,  he  was  abjectly  our 
servant. 

"  Show  us  your  horses !  "  Meekly  be  led  the  way 
to  his  stables.  With  as  knowing  look  as  we  could  as- 
sume we  scrutinized  the  lean  black  horse  and  dingy 
white  horse  which  were  walked  up  and  down  be- 
fore us. 

"0,  they  can  trot.  Yes,  yes,  Signora!"  and  lash- 
ing them  with  the  halter's  end  he  ran  them  up  and 
down  the  hill  at  a  good  pace. 

Triumphantly  we  led  our  conquered  vassal  back  to 
the  hotel ;  the  story  of  our  victory  was  received  in- 
credulously by  the  friend  whom  we  had  left  behind ; 
and  who,  speaking  Italian  as  fluently  as  she  speaks 
English,  liad  vainly  met  the  wordy  extortioner  on  his 
own  ground  with  his  own  weapons.  The  contract 
was  signed ;  supper  and  bed  and  night  passed,  and  at 
seven  o'clock  next  morning,  suiniiest  of  Saturdays,  we 
were  ofif.     Giacomo,  tlie  driver,  looked  like  a  Barn- 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS.  65 

stable  fisherman:  thin,  wiry,  light  blue  eyes,  pale 
brown  hair,  and  scanty  red  whiskers.  "  0,  how  came 
you  over  here?"  thought  we  as  he  jumped  up  and 
took  the  reins. 

The  whole  country  seemed  on  the  broad  laugh.  So 
bright,  so  green  were  flower  and  leaf  and  field ;  wav- 
ing locust  hedges,  full  of  morning-glories ;  and  every- 
where wide  stretches  of  vineyards,  in  which  the  vines 
were  looped  across  from  tree  to  tree,  looking  like  an 
Array  of  one-legged  dancers. 

Lunch  at  Santa  Croce,  a  town  which  has  a  lake,  and 
beech-woods  and  glimpses  of  the  far-off  dolomite  peaks. 
In  the  distance  we  could  see  a  misty  fringe  of  solid 
green,  high  up  in  the  air.  It  was  the  top  of  the  great 
beech  forest,  from  which  the  Venice  arsenal  gets  wood 
for  its  oars  and  masts  and  gun-carriages.  Ninety  miles 
in  circuit  is  this  government  forest,  full  of  game,  and 
with  an  isolated  plateau  in  its  centre,  where  the  keep- 
ers and  officials  live.  This  would  not  be  of  especial 
moment  to  know,  except  that  it  is  said  that  Titian  used 
to  go  there  to  learn  how  trees  grow,  and  that  he  spent 
three  months  in  this  neighborhood  drawing  the  back- 
ground for  his  "  Flight  into  Egypt." 

After  lunch  I  walked  on  in  advance  of  the  carriage, 
A  man  and  woman  who  were  working  in  a  vineyard 
on  the  right  sent  their  little  baby  to  beg  of  me.  I  do 
not  know  why  I  remember  that  baby  as  I  do  no  other 
child  in  all  Italy,  She  was  literally  a  baby,  certainly 
not  more  than  two  years  old ;  she  was  beautiful,  yet 
not  more  beautiful  than  scores  of  Italian  babies ;  but 
she  was  shy  as  a  wild  thrush;  she  absolutely  could 
not  take  a  step  towards  me  if  she  looked  at  me.  So 
she  clasped  her  two  little  inches  of  hands  tight  over 
her  eyes,  and  crept  on,  in  the  middle  of  the  dusty  road, 
more  and  more  slowly,  till  at  last  she  stood  still,  two 
yards  off;  then  taking  one  sly  peep  at  me  through  her 
fingers,  she  instantly  shut  them  down  again  tighter 
tlian  ever  and  stood  there,  kicking  up  little  clouds  of 


-66  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

dust  with  her  bare  toes,  the  most  irresistible  blind  beg- 
gar I  ever  saw. 

It  is  of  no  consequence  to  anybody  that  the  name 
of  the  town  where  we  slept  that  night  was  Longarone. 
If  only  journeys  could  be  told  and  the  names  of  towns 
left  out,  how  marvellously  improved  stories  of  travel 
would  be.  But  whoever  sleeps  at  Longarone  will 
remember  it  always,  the  dark,  frightened,  poverty- 
stricken  looking  httle  town  which  huddles  in  such  bare 
hollows  of  mountain  and  rock.  The  dismal  inn,  also, 
they  will  never  forget :  rooms  so  huge  that  lights  can-, 
not  light  them ;  two  stalking  high  beds  in  every  bed- 
room ;  and  on  the  mouldy  walls  of  the  great  dining- 
room  ghastly  pictures  of  Bible  characters  in  giant  size,  — 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  leading  up  to  Solomon,  on  his  throne, 
a  procession  of  black  boys  loaded  down  with  pumpkin- 
shaped  jewels ;  Samson  with  his  head  in  the  lap  of 
Delilah,  who  brandishes  alofl  at  least  two  pounds  of 
coarse  black  hair;  and  Pharaoh's  daughter  receiving 
Moses  in  a  knife-tray,  while  his  mother  stands  in  full 
sight  knee-deep  in  water  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river. 

The  Ampezzo  road,  just  beyond  Longarone,  enters 
the  country  of  Cadore,  the  country  of  Titian,  No 
wonder  they  were  strong  in  fight,  the  Cadorini,  and 
loyal  of  soul.  To  be  born  in  such  mountain  fastnesses, 
to  climb  such  precipices,  to  breathe  such  air,  and  to  see 
such  flowers,  at  once,  could  not  fail  to  make  souls  both 
strong  and  sweet. 

A  strange  hopelessness  almost  holds  me  back  from 
the  attempt  to  speak  of  that  day's  journey  through  the 
Ampezzo  Pass :  they  who  have  not  seen  it  will  not 
believe;  they  who  have  seen  it  will  smile  that  one 
should  try  to  put  such  shapes  in  words.  Possibly 
geologists  can  tell  what  a  dolomite  mountain  is ;  how 
and  why  it  is  so  seamed,  so  jagged,  so  wrought  into 
castle  and  battlement  and  obelisk  and  cathedral-front; 
beautiful  and  terrible  and  graceful  and  grotesque ;  by 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


67 


turns,  all  at  once;  in  sunlight,  in  shadow,  at  noon,  at 
night;  shifting  and  changing  tint  with  every  breath 
of  wind  or  cloud  on  its  surfaces :  but  to  common  men's 
eyes,  these  dolomite  ranges  are  as  unlike  all  other 
mountain  forms  as  is  Cellini's  carven  work  to  market- 
place pottery. 

They  seem  like  supernatural  architecture  gleaming 
out  of  supernatural  realms  in  upper  air.  There  are 
spires  and  minarets  and  bell-towers  and  turrets  and 
colonnades  and  wrought  walls;  that  they  are  ten, 
twelve,  thirteen  thousand  feet  away,  that  no  human 
foot  can  scale  them,  no  living  earthly  thing  abide  among 
them,  only  makes  their  distinct  semblance  of  palace 
and  church  and  city  the  more  uncanny.  And  when, 
as  often  happens,  a  sudden  wreath  of  cloud  or  fantastic 
growth  of  moss  changes  some  scarred  and  lined  rock 
into  giant  likeness  of  human  face,  it  becomes  still  hard- 
er not  to  believe  that  they  are  tenanted  by  beings  not 
of  flesh  and  blood.  One  such  face  we  ^aw,  which 
never  took  its  eyes  off  us  for  miles.  Even  sharp  turns 
in  the  road  made  no  change  in  it,  except  to  draw  the 
gray  hood  of  fir  closer  round  its  cheeks  and  to  make  it 
look  more  and  more  weird. 

These  startling  and  fantastic  mountain  shapes  hedged 
us,  walled  us,  seemed  to  marshal  themselves  to  oppose 
us,  all  the  way  from  Longarone  to  Tai  Cadore.  In 
spite  of  ourselves  we  were  overawed.  If  the  sun  had 
not  shone  gayly  and  the  peasants  had  not  whistled  and 
sung,  I  think  we  might  have  been  afraid.  But  every 
little  village  was  astir  with  work,  and  babies  were 
everywhere;  we  met  low  two-wheeled  wagons  filled 
with  hay,  slowly  pulled  along  by  donkeys,  while  the 
driver  slept  on  his  back ;  wagons  loaded  heavily  with 
beech  and  pine  boards,  and  drawn  by  oxen  which 
looked  like  gigantic  maltese  kittens  with  horns.  The 
meadows  were  green  with  a  greenness  so  shining  that 
it  seemed  to  blaze;  whole  fields  were  solid  mosaics  of 
color,  with  red  and  blue  and  yellow  and  white  flowers. 


68  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

Little  chapels  were  perched  up  on  apparently  inacces- 
sible heights,  above  every  village.  "  Why  do  they  put 
the  chapels  so  high  up,  Giacomo  ?  "  said  I.  "  It  must 
be  very  hard  to  climb  to  them." 

"  Ah,  Signora,  the  air  is  hoUer  there,"  replied  the 
Barnstable  fisherman. 

At  Perarollo,  the  river  Boita,  and  the  river  Piave, 
and  the  huge  dolomite  Antelao,  eleven  thousand  feet 
high,  all  join  hands  to  close  up  the  Ampezzo  Pass. 
This  is  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  spot  of  the  road. 
The  rivers  force  the  mountains  back  a  little,  and  the  sun 
pours  in ;  high  up  on  all  sides  are  small  plateaus  of 
green  pasture ;  the  village  is  built  into  every  niche  of 
foothold  it  can  find,  and  is  full  of  pretty  summer-houses 
of  brown  and  yellow  wood.  On  each  river  are  lum- 
ber-mills, and  the  glistening  logs  are  roUing  and  drift- 
ing down  on  both  sides. 

Three  times  this  wonderful  Ampezzo  road  winds 
across  the  front  of  the  Antelao  before  it  can  venture  to 
turn  it;  it  seems  to  cling  to  the  mountain's  side  like 
an  elastic  ladder  of  stone,  a  perfect  miracle  of  engineer- 
ing. We  were  hours  climbing  slowly  back  and  forth 
on  that  dolomite  wall,  tacking,  like  a  ship  in  contrary 
winds.  From  the  first  tier  of  the  road  we  looked  up 
to  the  other  two,  hanging  above  our  heads ;  from  the 
upper,  we  looked  down  into  Perarollo,  and  could  see 
no  trace  of  the  road  by  which  we  had  come. 

At  last  we  fairly  roimded  the  mountain,  and,  turning 
back  again  into  the  valley  of  the  Boita,  saw  the  village 
of  Tai  Cadore  shining  before  us.  In  an  hour  we  had 
reached  the  little  inn.  But  a  guest  had  arrived  before 
us,  sudden,  unannounced.  His  unwelcome  presence 
filled  every  room.  As  Giacomo,  with  a  ludicrous  affec- 
tation of  effort,  reined  in  his  only  too  willing  horses,  a 
man  came  running  out  of  the  house  with  significant 
gestures  exclaiming,  "Do  not  stop,  do  not  stop;  the 
padrone  lies  dying."  He  was  the  padrone's  son,  and 
his  eyes  were  red  from  crying.     A  crowd  of  peasants 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS.  69 

stood  about  the  door  and  in  the  hall ;  the  little  dingy 
windows  of  the  room  on  the  left  hand  of  the  door  were 
darkened  by  heads  rising  one  above  the  other,  but  all 
motionless.  No  doubt  it  was  in  that  very  room  that 
the  poor  landlord  lay,  drawing  his  last  breaths  with 
unnecessary  difficulty  in  the  close  air  made  still  closer 
by  such  crowding  in  of  friends  and  neighbors.  I  was 
struck  by  the  oneness  of  the  look  which  death's  pres- 
ence brings  on  faces  of  simple-hearted,  solitary  people 
all  the  world  over.  These  men  of  Cadore  were  earlier 
on  the  spot  than  it  is  the  custom  in  Maine  or  New 
Hampshire  for  neighbors  to  gather ;  but  I  have  seen  at 
many  a  New  England  ■  funeral  just  such  a  silent,  eager 
circle  of  men  standing  around  the  door  through  which 
the  dead  must  be  borne,  and  looking  and  listening  with 
a  weird  sort  of  alert  solemnity  which  seems  not  wholly 
sorry  for  the  occasion. 

It  was  a  most  opportune  moment  for  us,  how- 
ever, which  this  good  soul  had  selected  for  his  dying. 
Nothing  for  the  reluctant  Giacomo  and  the  nerve- 
less horses  to  do  but  to  take  us  a  mile  and  a  half  off 
the  route  for  dinner  and  rest,  at  Pieve  di  Cadore. 
Pieve  di  Cadore  !  the  very  place  we  had  had  at  heart 
ever  since  we  left  Venice,  and  which  we  had  had  many 
misgivings  about  being  able  to  see,  while  Giacomo 
rested  his  horses  at  Tai.  At  Pieve  di  Cadore  "  II  divino 
Tiziano "  was  born  in  1477 ;  at  Pieve  di  Cadore  he 
lived  till  he  was  ten  years  old ;  to  Pieve  di  Cadore  he 
returned  year  after  year,  for  love  of  his  kindred,  men, 
and  mountains.  There,  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  in 
1530,  he  took  refuge  with  his  three  motherless  little 
children ;  and  during  this  visit  he  painted,  on  a  banner 
for  the  village  church,  a  picture  of  three  little  children 
giving  flowers  to  a  Madonna  seated  on  a  throne. 

There,  in  1560,  he  came  again,  old,  but  not  bent,  and 
bearing  the  titles  of  Count  of  the  Empire  and  Knight 
of  the  Golden  Spur. 

There  also  he  would  have  fled,  in  1576,  when  the 


•JO  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS 

plague  was  sweeping  Venice ;  but  brave  and  strong  to 
the  last,  lie  delayed  going  until  an  edict  had  been 
issued  forbidding  the  departure  of  any  citizen  from 
Venice.  So  in  Venice  he  died,  ninety-nine  years  old, 
alone,  forsaken  even  by  his  servants;  and  the  pesti- 
lence which  had  taken  his  life  thwarted  his  purpose 
even  after  his  death,  for  none  dared  carry  his  body  — 
as  he  had  willed,  and  left  order  for  its  burial  —  to  Pieve 
di  Cadore. 

They  buried  it  in  haste  in  the  church  of  the  Frari, 
in  Venice,  dropping  into  the  grave  the  knightly  insig- 
nia which  the  emperor  had  given  to  the  painter ;  and 
for  nearly  half  a  century  no  stone  marked  the  spot 
where  the  insignia  lay  turning  to  dust,  and  the  dust 
lay  turning  into  insignia  of  those  mysterious  things 
"  which  shall  be." 

"  No  one  ever  goes  to  the  inn  at  Pieve  di  Cadore," 
said  the  displeased  Giacomo,  with  a  shrug. 

"  Why  then  is  it  an  inn  ?  "  said  we  with  sharp  log- 
ical retort,  inwardly  blessing  the  conjunction  of  our 
star  with  the  dying  landlord's  at  Tai,  and  not  caring 
whether  we  could  dine  or  not,  in  an  inn  on  a  street 
where  the  little  boy  Tiziano  Vecellio  had  played. 

But  the  inn  was  an  inn,  and  the  dinner  not  so  bad 
that  I  remember  it.  I  shall  never  forget,  though,  how 
it  was  cooked ;  in  big  iron  pots,  swung  from  derricks 
of  cranes,  above  a  big  bonfire,  built  on  a  big  stone  plat- 
form, raised  up  in  a  sort  of  bay-window  chimney,  fill- 
ing one  whole  side  of  the  kitchen ;  benches  to  right  of 
the  bonfire,  benches  to  left  of  the  bonfire;  benches 
and  bonfire  all  in  the  chimney  bay-window ;  and  peo- 
ple sitting  on  the  benches,  I  among  them,  with  feet  at 
the  bonfire ;  and  all  the  while  the  great  iron  jiots  boil- 
ing and  steaming  and  bobbing  their  covers,  among  and 
above  our  feet ;  the  landlady  reaching  over  and  among 
our  shoulders,  and  sticking  in  ladles  and  pokers  here 
and  there.  If  she  had  knocked  off  my  hat,  at  any  min- 
ute, it  would  have  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


71 


the  world ;  merely  taking  off  my  cover  and  the  beef's 
at  once,  lest  we  should  boil  to  pieces. 

She  told  us  with  pride  how  a  deaf  and  dumb  English 
artist  had  stayed  with  her  for  two  months,  had  walked 
all  over  the  Cadore  country,  and  had  carried  away  a 
box  full  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  which  he  had 
painted.  "  Poor  gentleman,  there  was  not  much  else 
he  could  do,  since  he  could  neither  speak  nor  hear." 
"  He  was  the  sweet&st  gentleman."  "  Never  made 
any  trouble."  "  Lived  on  polenta  chiefly."  "  All  the 
children  knew  him  and  used  to  follow  him  when  he 
went  off  to  paint."  And  so  she  ran  on,  adding  adjec- 
tive after  adjective  in  the  sweet  Italian  superlatives, 
which  are  so  silver  smooth  in  their  endings  that  there 
seems  far  less  of  exaggeration  in  them  than  in  the 
harsher  measures  of  more  and  most  in  other  tongues. 
It  was  plain  that  the  poor  lonely  deaf-mute  had  won 
for  himself  warm  place  in  the  village  heart  His  speech- 
less language  was  a  universal  one ;  and  perhaps,  after 
all,  he  stood  less  helpless  among  the  people  than  we 
did  with  our  stammer  of  poor  Italian. 

After  dinner  we  followed  a  thread  of  path  down 
sharp  terraces,  and  behind  houses,  into  a  meadow 
which  one  must  cross  to  reach  the  ruins  of  the  Castle 
of  Cadore.  The  Castle  was  a  castle  so  late  as  1809. 
Now  it  is  a  ruin,  and  the  ugly  village  church,  they  say, 
was  built  out  of  its  stones.  But  it  is  far  better  as  it  is, 
—  a  great  gateway  tower,  high  battlements,  several 
lengths  of  crumbling  wall,  and  a  high  square  tower  in 
the  middle.  From  its  heights  must  be  magnificent 
view  of  the  valleys  of  the  Piave  and  the  Boita,  and  the 
grand  moimtain  masses  of  dolomite  in  all  directions. 
But  we  did  not  see  this  view ;  we  chmbed  no  hill ;  we 
asked  for  no  castle;  we  knelt  in  the  meadow  among 
the  flowers.  The  path  was  so  narrow  that  two  could 
not  pass,  unless  one  stepped  out ;  but  to  step  out  was 
like  stepping  into  spicy  sea.  No  foot  could  fall  there 
without  crushing  more  flowers  than  it  would  be  easy 


72 


THE  AMFEZZO  PASS. 


to  count,  and  the  mere  brushing  by  of  garments  stirred 
fragrance  heavy  hke  incense.  We  were  speecliless ; 
we  could  not  believe ;  the  mosaic  fields  of  bloom  we 
had  seen  on  our  way  were  dull  and  scanty.  Then  we 
said,  "  0,  no  doubt  the  legend  is  true,  that  Titian,  when 
he  was  only  eleven  years  old,  painted  with  juices  of 
flowers  a  picture  of  the  Madonna ;  this  is  the  field 
where  he  picked  the  flowers ;  and  these  are  the  same 
reds  and  blues  and  yellows  which  he  used."  Tip 
and  down  in  the  meadow  we  went,  picking  flowers 
in  the  sort  of  frantic  haste  with  which  in  dreams  or  in 
fairy  stories  men  snatch  enchanted  gold  in  caves  or 
palaces  of  wizards.  If  the  meadow  had  melted  away 
of  a  sudden,  and  left  us  empty-handed  in  a  dusty  place, 
I  think  it  would  have  been  less  startling  than  it  grew 
to  be,  to  see  each  slope  and  hollow  lying  minute  after 
minute  unaltered,  undiminished  in  color,  while  we  filled 
our  hands  over  and  over  again  Avith  flowers  whose 
shapes  and  whose  tints  were  all  new  to  us.  By  the 
reckoning  of  clocks  we  were  not  in  that  meadow  more 
than  twenty  minutes ;  but  we  carried  out  of  it  thirty- 
two  different  kinds  of  flowers  which  no  one  of  us  hac? 
ever  seen  before.  Besides  these  there  were  dozens 
more,  which  we  did  not  pick,  because  we  knew  them, 
—  clovers,  and  gentians,  and  ladies'-tresses,  and  butter- 
cups, and  columbines,  and  bellworts,  and  meadow-rue, 
and  shepherd's-purse.  We  never  saw  such  spot  again. 
It  is  part  of  my  creed  that  there  is  no  other  such  spot 
in  the  world,  and  I  call  it  Titian's  Meadow. 

It  is  but  a  few  moments'  walk  from  this  meadow  to 
the  house  where  he  was  born.  It  is  a  poor  little  cot- 
tage, low  and  black  and  smoky ;  an  old  woman,  who 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
years  old,  was  hobbling  and  mumbling  about  in  the 
kitchen,  over  just  such  a  stone  platform  of  cooking- 
stove  as  we  had  left  in  the  inn.  She  was  used  to  re- 
ceiving visitors  in  the  name  of  Titian,  and  had  a  glib 
string  of  improbable  story  at  her  tongue's  end.     The 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


73 


huge  rafters  overhead  were  burned  and  smoked  into 
blacks  and  yellows  and  browns,  which  were  stronger 
witness  to  centuries  than  any  words  could  give ;  and 
an  old  stone  fountain  in  front  of  the  house,  presided 
over  by  a  nameless,  featureless  stone  saint,  plashed 
away  into  an  eight-sided  stone  basin ;  a  very  dirty  ht- 
tle  boy  was  sailing  a  chip  in  it ;  probably  he  looked  not 
unlike  another  little  boy  who  sailed  chips  in  it  four 
hundred  years  ago,  and  whose  name  now  gives  honor 
to  the  cottage  walls  in  this  inscription  :  "  Within  these 
humble  walls  Tiziano  VecelU  began  his  celebrated 
life." 

Titian  is  more  honored  by  this  inscription  than  by 
the  full-length  painting  of  him,  which  stretches  up  and 
down  on  the  bell-tower  of  the  Pretura.  Anything 
uglier  than  the  Pretura  is  seldom  seen,  and  the  ambi- 
tious Cadoriiii  have  made  bad  matters  worse  by  stuc- 
coing the  building  from  top  to  bottom  and  painting  it 
in  imitation  of  old  stone.  But  they  carefully  refrained 
from  disturbing  the  picture  of  Titian,  and  there  it  still 
stands  in  giant  hidcousness ;  a  man  apparently  twelve 
feet  high,  and  weighing  five  or  six  hundred,  swathed 
from  neck  to  ankles  in  a  stiff  robe  of  bright  blue,  which 
has  so  little  semblance  of  fold  or  fulness  that  it  looks 
less  like  a  robe  than  like  a  huge  blue  sarcophagus  into 
which  the  unhappy  painter  had  sunk  up  to  his  ears ; 
his  left  hand  points  to  the  "  Casa  Tiziano" ;  and  at  his 
side,  on  a  table  covered  with  a  flagrantly  gaudy  cloth, 
lie  his  palette  and  brushes;  behind  the  whole,  a 
straight  wall  of  sky,  ten  shades  bluer  than  the  blue 
robe,  and  if  possible  more  unnatural.  The  continued 
existence  of  this  picture  is  proof  that  spirits  do  not 
revisit  this  earth ;  or  at  any  rate  cannot  make  use  of 
physical  machinery  to  accomplish  material  ends  in  this 
atmosphere.  Wherever  Titian  is  to-day,  he  has  not 
forgotten  his  beloved  Cadore,  and  he  would  not  let 
this  colossal  abomination  look  down  into  that  piazza 
another  night,  if  he  could  help  himself 
4 


^4  THE  AMPEZZG  PASS. 

From  the  Pretura  to  the  church  through  the  Sunday 
crowds  of  sruiling  people;  women  with  short,  dark 
blue  gowns  and  white  or  gray  handkerchiefs  tied  in  the 
Albanian  fashion  over  their  heads;  men  with  higher 
hats,  symptom  of  the  nearing  Tyrol ;  children  rosy  and 
fat  and  merry,  —  comforting  contrast  to  the  pallid  little 
ones  of  Venice.  No  soul,  old  or  young,  but  looked  at 
us  with  straight,  curious,  friendly  gaze;  they  are  off 
the  common  routes  of  travel,  the  Cadorini,  and  are  all 
the  friendlier  and  nicer  for  it.  The  old  sexton  knew 
very  well,  however,  as  soon  as  we  crossed  the  thresh- 
old of  the  church,  what  we  would  see ;  and  it  was 
with  great  pride  that  he  drew  the  curtain  from  the 
group  of  family  portraits  under  name  of  Madonna  and 
Saints,  which  hangs  in  the  chapel  of  tlie  Vecellio  fam- 
ily, and  which  Titian  painted. 

There  seems  odd  mixture  of  reverence  for  earth  and 
irreverence  for  heaven  in  the  way  the  masters  painted 
portraits  of  wives  and  nephews  for  Madonnas  and  Saints. 
In  this  picture,  "  San  Tiziano  "  the  patron  saint  of  the 
Vecelli  kneels  on  the  right  hand  of  the  Madonna.  He 
is,  however,  only  Titian's  nephew  Marco,  and  the  Ma- 
donna is  Titian's  wife ;  while  Titian's  uncle  Francesco 
figures,  by  help  of  a  cross  on  his  shoulder,  as  St.  An- 
drew, and  in  one  corner  Titian  himself  appears  as  a  so- 
ber acolyte.  A  more  comfortable  and  domestic  looking 
family  group  was  never  photographed  under  xiame  of 
Smith  or  Jones.  Except  that  the  little  baby  curled  up 
in  the  mother's  lap  is  naked,  there  seems  novhing  un- 
natural (or  supernatural)  about  their  all  happening  to 
be  there  together  just  at  that  minute. 

There  is  another  of  Titian's  pictures  here,  said  to  have 
been  painted  when  he  was  only  twenty  years  old. 
This  also  is  of  a  Madonna  and  Saints;  there  were  a 
few  other  pictures  which  the  sexton  pressed  ub  to  see, 
a  Pordenone,  he  said,  and  a  Palma  Vecchio:  but  we 
liked  the  open  air  of  the  market-place  and  thp«  sight  of 
the  mountains  better.     Stands  and  wagons  o'^  ttuit  and 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


75 


silk  handkerchiefs  and  chickens  and  earthen  pipkins 
filled  the  corners.  Cadore  is  a  rough  country,  and 
gives  small  reward  to  them  that  farm  it,  but  it  has 
always  been  famous  for  fruits.  Even  in  the  thirteenth 
century  there  came  to  be  a  proverb, 

"  Cadore  and  Feltre  for  apples  and  pears, 
Serravalle  for  swords." 

The  clouds  began  to  gather  and  wheel  among  the 
crags  of  the  dolomite  mountains.  They  were  ten  thou- 
sand feet  up  in  air,  to  be  sure,  and  miles  away  to  north 
and  west  and  south ;  but  they  meant  rain,  —  rain  close 
upon  us,  violent,  pelting,  driving  rain.  These  were 
such  sudden  gatherings  and  massings  of  clouds  as  Titian 
had  watched  and  studied  and  carried  away  in  memory, 
and  reproduced,  when,  living  on  the  serene,  soft,  gliding 
level  of  Venice,  he  threw  into  so  many  of  his  pictures 
marvellous  backgrounds  of  sharp,  abrupt  mountain 
outlines  with  clouds  circhng  round  their  summits. 
Doubtless  Venetian  critics  who  had  not  been  in  Cadore 
found  these  mountain  backgrounds  unnatural  and  im- 
possible. Certainly  a  faithful  drawing  of  the  weird 
and  fantastic  dolomites  would  seem  simply  grotesque 
caricature  to  one  who  had  never  seen  them.  Even 
a  photograph  would  seem  incredible. 

The  peaks  of  Marmarolo  and  Duranno  disappeared ; 
great  sheets  of  mist  came  driving  down,  blotting  out 
even  the  castle  ;  blotting  out  also  every  trace  of  con- 
tent and  good-humor  upon  Giacomo's  face.  This  small 
addition  to  his  prescribed  route  had  been  too  much  for 
his  philosophy,  and  our  delays  had  finally  piled  the 
last  feather  on  the  camel's  back  of  his  patience.  Per- 
haps, however,  we  were  unjust;  perhaps,  he  knew 
even  better  than  we  did  the  feebleness  of  the  spectral 
horses  which  drew  us  slowly  out  of  Pieve  di  Cadore 
in  that  streaming  rain;  it  was  an  uncanny  atmosphere; 
all  shapes  seemed  lost;  and  then,  again,  all  shapes 
seemed  to  loom  and  quiver  and  dance ;  the  black  horse 


76  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

looked  white,  and  the  white  horse  did  not  seem  to  be 
there,  though  we  heard  his  languid  footfalls. 

"  Shut  up  the  carriage,  Giacorao,"  said  we.  "  It  is 
of  no  use  to  keep  it  open  in  sucli  a  blinding  storm." 

Quickly  and  silently  he  roofed  us  over  with  the  ill- 
smelling  leather  flap ;  and  as  silent  as  he,  and  almost 
as  sullenly,  —  shall  I  confess  ?  —  we  took  the  stifling 
afternoon's  journey  to  Cortina  d'  Ampezzo.  We  seemed 
driving  in  the  teeth  of  sudden  winter ;  the  rain  changed 
to  sleet  and  the  wind  howled;  the  jagged  peaks  of 
dolomite  thrust  themselves  here  and  tJiere  out  of  the 
clouds  as  if  they  were  being  hurled  at  us  by  invisible 
giants.  It  was  nearly  eight  o'clock  when  we  drove 
into  the  little  piazza  of  Cortina  d'  Ampezzo.  Suddenly 
we  halt.  In  the  stormy  twilight  a  woman  has  run 
across  the  road,  and  almost  taken  our  horses  by  the 
head.  "  Are  these  the  American  ladies  ?  Then  they 
are  to  come  to  our  inn.  Their  friends  are  awaiting 
them  there." 

This  was  one  of  the  sisters  Barbaria,  who  keep  the 
"  House  of  the  Star  of  Gold  "  ;  and  lest  by  any  ill  chance 
we  might  go  to  the  rival  inn,  she  had  been  watching 
the  Cadore  road  aU  the  afternoon. 

0,  how  beamed  the  pleasant  English  faces  which 
smiled  our  welcome  in  that  low  doorway  I  and  how 
crackled  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  where  two  sisters  Bar- 
baria, with  high-crowned  black  hats  on  their  heads, 
were  washing  dishes;  one  sister  Barbaria  was  picking 
feathers  off  tiny  birds;  another  sister  Barbaria  was 
piling  up  our  bags  and  bundles  on  her  brawny  arms ; 
another  sister  Barbaria  was  asking  what  we  would 
have  for  supper ;  and  a  fiflh  sister  Barbaria  was  stand- 
in  the  hall  looking  on  :  five  sisters  Barbaria !  and  they 
have  kept  the  "  Albergo  Stella  d'  Oro  "  for  many  years, 
without  any  help  from  man. 

Presently  appealed  a  sixth  sister  Barbaria,  but  she 
was  a  fme  lady  of  quite  other  style.  She  was  Barbaria 
no  longer,  having  married  a  young  German  engineer, 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


77 


a  clever  fellow  who  had  had  charge  of  that  part  of  the 
» Ampezzo  road  between  Cortina  d'  Ampezzo  and  Ca- 
dore ;  and,  staying  at  the  "  Star  of  Grold,"  had  found 
a  wife  among  his  landladies.  This  sister  wore  a  silk 
gown  and  a  show  of  jewelry,  had  been  with  her  hus- 
band to  Rome  and  Venice,  and  was  now  summering  at 
Cortina,  like  any  other  lady  of  means.  But  she  was 
far  less  interesting  than  her  guileless  sisters,  who  had 
never  been  out  of  the  village  in  which  they  were  born, 
and  who  shared  all  the  work  of  the  inn,  even  the  hard- 
est and  most  menial,  with  a  sisterly  good-will  and 
good-cheer  which  were  beautiful  to  see. 

The  two  who  wore  black  hats  hke  common  peasants, 
and  who  drudged  all  day  in  the  low  basement  kitchen 
and  outhouses,  seemed  as  happy  and  loving  as  the  others, 
who  were  much  better  dressed,  and  who  cared  for  the 
rooms,  waited  at  table,  kept  accounts,  etc. 

One  of  these  was  a  woman  who  would  have  been 
an  artist  if  she  had  not  been  an  innkeeper  and  lived  in 
Cortina.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  how  this  poor  soul 
had  found  outlet  for  her  artistic  impulse  in  works  of 
worsted  and  crochet  cotton.  The  "  best  room  "  of 
the  "  Star  of  Gold "  was  decorated  with  her  handi- 
work, —  full  long  curtains  of  knit  lace  at  the  windows 
and  over  the  bed ;  a  counterpane  of  the  same  lace ;  a 
full  draping  for  the  toilet-table ;  and  crocheted  covers 
for  all  the  chairs.  The  patterns  were  all  singularly 
graceful  and  pretty.  Lifting  the  chair  covers,  we  found, 
to  our  astonishment,  that  the  chair  bottoms  were  all 
most  elaborately  worked  in  gay  worsteds  on  cloth. 
Then  we  said  to  one  of  the  sisters,  "  How  pretty  these 
things  are  !     Did  you  make  them  ?  " 

Her  plain  old  face  lit  up  with  pleasure.  "  0  no ;  my 
sister  Anita  made  them  all.  She  does  most  beautiful 
work.  Sister  Anita.  She  shall  show  you."  And  run- 
ning out,  she  called  Anita,  who  came  shyly  but  with 
pleasure;  poor,  brown,  withered,  simple  old  maiden 
woman,  whose  one  joy  had  been  to  fashion  these  gay 


78  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

flowers.  She  brought  in  her  hand  pieces  of  black  and 
brown  broadcloth,  enough  for  half  a  dozen  chairs  and 
two  crickets,  most  elaborately  embroidered. 

The  patterns  were  stiff,  and  the  colors  not  always 
good. 

"  We  have  to  take  what  we  can  get,  here  in  this 
poor  place,"  said  Sister  Anita ;  sometimes  I  think,  if  I 
could  go  myself  to  Brixen,  I  could  surely  find  prettier 
patterns,  but  I  must  send  always.  Are  there  not  pret- 
tier patterns  ?  "  she  asked  '  with  pathetic  eagerness. 
Could  any  human  heart  have  been  flinty  enough  not 
to  equivocate  in  reply  to  this  question  of  this  poor 
hungry  soul  ?  Then  when  she  found  that  we  were  so 
interested  in  her  work,  and  admired  it  so  heartily,  she 
darted  away  and  returned  presently  with  great  wreaths 
and  bunches  of  worsted  flowers,  —  lilies  and  poppies 
and  gentians  and  pinks,  and  long  ivy  vines,  made  upon 
wires,  and  really  beautiful.  These  were  to  decorate 
the  house  with  on  festa  day;  she  had  many  drawers  full 
of  them  ;  had  enough  to  decorate  the  whole  house,  "  till 
it  looked  like  garden  !  "  And  no  one  had  ever  taught 
her  to  make  them  ;  she  had  picked  the  flowers  in  the 
field,  she  said,  and  set  them  up  in  a  glass  before  her,  and 
copied  them  as  nearly  as  she  could.  "  Why  do  you 
not  make  up  these  chairs  and  crickets  ?  "  we  thought- 
lessly asked ;  "  they  are  too  pretty  to  be  laid  away  in 
a  drawer." 

Anita  replied  that  she  was  too  poor;  it  would  take 
much  money.  But  Anita  did  not  tell  the  truth.  I 
saw  in  her  cheek  another  story,  written  in  red,  as  in- 
deed it  might  well  be,  —  the  story  which  had  in  it  a 
hope  deferred,  perhaps  lost  forever.  Poor  Anita,  she 
is  old  and  ugly.  I  am  afraid  the  embroidered  chairs 
will  never  grace  a  weddnig-feast. 

Next  morning  we  looked  out  on  snow  ;  everywhere 
fine  feathery  dust  of  snow  ;  thin  rims  of  ice  in  the 
stone  fountain  belore  the  inn,  and  solid  masses  of  white 
on  the  sides  of  the  mountains.     But  the  first  hour  of 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 


79 


sun  melted  it  all  oflf  the  meadows,  and  left  the  flowera 
brighter  than  ever,  glistening  as  after  a  heavy  dew. 
Tiny  white  lilies  not  two  inches  long  nor  more  than 
eight  inches  from  the  ground,  and  low  gentians  of  a 
blue  like  the  blue  of  lapis-lazuli,  —  these  were  growing 
everywhere ;  we  filled  our  hands  with  them  within  five 
minutes  walk  of  the  inn.  Later  in  the  day  the  Ger- 
man engineer  brought  in  a  bouquet  which  he  had  gath- 
ered farther  up  on  the  hills,  of  such  flowers  as  we  had 
seen  at  Pieve  di  Cadore ;  twenty-four  different  kinda 
in  that  bouquet,  all  colors,  all  shapes,  all  fragrances  I 

There  is  one  shoemaker  in  Cortina  d'  Ampezzo.  His 
shop  is  in  an  upper  chamber,  about  eight  feet  square. 
There  I  found  him  sitting  on  a  low  seat,  with  a  leath- 
ern apron,  and  spectacles  way  down  his  nose,  holding  a 
shoe  wrong  side  up  between  his  knees,  and  sewing 
away  hke  any  old  man  in  Lynn.  I  sat  down  gravely 
in  front  of  him,  held  out  a  morocco  bow  in  one  hand 
and  a  tattered  American  boot  in  the  other,  and  asked 
if  he  could  sew  the  bow  on  the  boot.  He  was  a  Ger- 
man, but  the  apparition  of  my  boot  was  too  much  for 
even  his  phlegm  ,  he  turned  it  over  and  over  and  over. 
A  boot  that  buttoned  he  had  never  seen ,  I  showed 
him  my  button-hook ;  his  amazement  deepened ;  he 
buttoned  and  unbuttoned  the  boot  with  it,  grunting 
out  thicker  and  thicker,  "  Jas,  jas,"  at  every  turn  of 
the  instrument  Finally  he  set  about  the  sewing  on 
of  the  bow.  The  door  opened ;  more  men  of  Cortina 
came  in ;  they  had  seen  me  go  up  j  they  scented  ad- 
venture ;  one,  two,  three ;  the  room  grew  very  hot , 
the  buttonhook  was  passed  about;  the  three  men 
turned  it  up  and  down,  and  looked  at  me.  I  could  not 
understand  a  dozen  words  they  said.  It  was  very  em- 
barrassing. The  time  came  to  put  on  my  boot;  the 
shoemaker  leaned  forward  to  see  how  I  did  it ;  the 
three  men  of  Cortina  crowded  around  and  stooped 
down  to  see  how  I  did  it ;  a  sense  of  the  ludicrous 
helplessness  of  my  situation  so  overcame  me  that  I 


8o  THE  AMPEZZO  PASS. 

broke  out  into  a  genuine  laugh,  which,  improper  as  it 
might  have  been,  seemed  to  put  me  quite  at  my  ease 
again,  and  I  displayed  to  the  good  souls  the  mechan- 
ism of  button-hook,  button,  and  button-hole  as  com- 
placently as  if  I  had  been  a  vender  of  the  patent. 
Then  they  all  four  accompanied  me  to  the  door,  and 
bade  me  good  morning  with  the  reverence  due  to  the 
owner  of  such  mysterious  boots.  But  I  resolved  not 
to  take  off  my  boots  again  in  Tyrolese  shoe-shops  1 

How  bitterly  we  regretted  the  ignorant  haste  in 
which  we  had,  at  Conegliano,  pledged  ourselves  to  ask 
but  one  day's  rest  at  Cortina  d'  Ampezzo.  We  would 
gladly  have  stayed  with  the  sisters  Barbaria  a  week ; 
we  comforted  ourselves  by  air  castles  of  another  sum- 
mer in  which  we  would  come  again  and  stay  a  month, 
bringing  with  us  them  whom  we  most  loved.  Hope- 
fully the  elder  sister  made  it  clear  to  us  that  she  would 
welcome  us  as  guests  for  a  month  at  seven  francs  a  day. 
A  month,  face  to  face  with  those  wonderful  pink  and  yel- 
low and  gray  and  white  and  salmon-colored  mountains 
of  dolomite  I  A  month  of  those  flowers  !  Thirty  times 
as  many  as  we  had  picked  that  day;  and  dear  soft 
brown  eyes  which  we  knew,  to  light  up  with  joy  at 
sight  of  all  we  could  bring  I  What  a  dream  it  was , 
on  what  shore  does  it  stand  now,  pale  in  its  death,  but 
transfigured  in  its  resurrection  among  other  sweet 
things  which  we  dare  to  call  lost,  when  tliey  have 
only  gone  before  I 

The  dining-room  windows  of  the  "Star  of  Gold" 
are  filled  with  geraniums ;  not  "  plants,"  not  "  bushes," 
as  we  commonly  see,  but  trees,  —  trees  tall,  branching, 
sturdy,  and  bearing  flowers  as  apple-trees  bear  apples , 
blossoms  scarlet  and  rose-pink,  and  marvellous  white 
with  purple  and  crimson  markings.  Lavishly  the  elder 
sister  gathers  them  for  departing  guests  ;  and  we  drove 
off  in  the  early  afternoon,  each  of  us  witli  a  big  bunch 
in  our  lap. 

We  were  not  yet  at  the  summit  of  the  Pass.     Hours 


THE  AMPEZZO  PASS.  8i 

more  of  slow  climbing  among  larches  and  pines  and 
rocks  and  flowers ;  at  last  the  larches  disappeared,  then 
the  pines;  nothing  was  left  but  stunted  firs.  On  a 
dark  icy  plateau  at  the  very  top  of  the  Pass  we  came 
suddenly  upon  a  great  field  of  blue  forget-me-nots; 
just  beyond  that,  a  silent  lake  which  must  be  unfath- 
omable, to  look  so  black;  and  then  we  began  to  go 
slowly  down,  down  the  other  side ;  soft  wooded  slopes, 
and  valleys  of  grain,  and  a  look  of  tlirift.  We  felt 
almost  like  dodging,  as  if  we  were  pelted  with  pebbles, 
when  the  German  gutturals  first  began  to  fly  in  the 
air.  We  forgot  the  German  for  "  chicken,"  and  fell 
back  on  "  Kut-kut-ka-da-kut,"  which  is  language  for 
"  chicken  "  all  the  world  over.  We  shuddered  at  sight 
of  the  huge  efiigies  of  the  dead  Christ,  at  corners  of  the 
roads ;  we  found  the  men  surly,  and  women  and  men 
alike  hideous,  and  hideously  alike ;  we  no  longer  thought 
the  horses  too  slov/ ;  we  grudged  each  mile  that  they 
took  us  farther  from  Italy.  Each  of  us  had  left  half 
her  heart  in  Venice,  and  the  other  half  in  the  "  House 
of  the  Star  of  Gold,"  with  the  sisters  Barbaria. 


A* 


A   MAY-DAY   IN   ALBANO. 

"  \  ITE  went  Maying  on  donkeys,  and  we  found 
VV  more  flowers  than  could  have  been  picked  in 
a  month.  What  a  May-day  for  people  who  had  all 
their  lives  before  gone  Maying  in  india-rubbers,  and  an 
east-wind,  on  the  Atlantic  coast  of  America ;  had  been 
glad  and  grateful  over  a  few  saxifrages  and  houstonias, 
and  knelt  in  ecstasy  if  they  found  a  shivering  clump 
of  dog-tooth  violets. 

Our  donkey  man  looked  so  like  a  New  Englander 
that  I  have  an  uncomfortable  curiosity  about  him :  slim, 
thin,  red-haired,  freckled,  blue-eyed,  hollow-chested,  I 
believe  he  had  run  away  in  his  youth  from  Barnstable, 
and  drifted  to  the  shores  of  the  Alban  Lake.  I  watched 
him  in  vain  to  discover  any  signs  of  his  understandmg 
our  conversation,  but  I  am  sure  I  heard  him  say  "  gee  " 
to  the  donkeys. 

The  donkey  boy,  too,  had  New  England  eyes,  hon- 
est dark  blue  gray,  with  perpetual  laugh  in  them.  It 
was  for  his  eyes  I  took  him  along,  he  being  as  super- 
fluous as  a  fifth  leg  to  the  donkey.  But  when  he 
danced  up  and  down  with  bare  feet  on  the  stones  in 
front  of  the  hotel  door,  and  twisted  and  untwisted  his 
dirty  little  fingers  in  agony  of  fear  lest  I  should  say  no, 
all  the  while  looking  up  into  my  face  with  a  hopeful 
imploring  smile,  so  like  one  I  shall  never  see  again,  I 
loved  him,  and  engaged  him  then  and  there  always  to 
walk  by  my  donkey's  nose  so  long  as  I  rode  donkeys 
in  Albano.  I  had  no  sooner  done  this  than,  presto,  my 
boy  disappeared ;  and  all  I  could  see  in  his  stead  was 
a  sort  of  human  pin-wlieel,  with  ten  dangerous  toeb 


A   MA  Y-DA  V  IN  ALBANO.  83 

for  spokes,  flying  round  and  round  by  my  side.  What 
a  pleased  Italian  boy,  aged  eleven,  can  do  in  the  way 
of  revolving  somersets  passes  belief,  even  while  you 
are  looking  at  it.  But  in  a  moment  he  came  down 
right  end  up,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  mature  protector, 
took  my  donkey  by  the  rope,  and  off  we  went. 

I  never  find  myself  forming  part  of  a  donkey,  with  a 
donkey  man  in  rear,  without  being  reminded  of  all  the 
pictures  I  have  seen  of  the  "  Flight  into  Egypt,"  and 
being  impressed  anew  with  a  sense  of  the  terrible  time 
that  Holy  Family  must  have  had  trying  to  make  haste 
on  such  kind  of  animal :  of  all  beasts,  to  escape  from  a 
hostile  monarch  on  !  And  one  never  pities  Joseph  any 
more  for  having  to  go  on  foot ;  except  for  the  name  of 
the  thing,  walking  must  always  be  easier. 

If  I  say  that  we  climbed  up  a  steep  hill  to  the  Capu- 
chin church  and  convent,  and  then  bore  oflf  to  the 
right  along  the  shores  of  the  Alban  Lake,  and  resolved 
to  climb  on  till  we  reached  the  Convent  of  Palazzuola, 
which  is  half-way  up  the  side  of  Monte  Cavo,  it  does 
not  mean  anything  to  people  who  do  not  know  the 
Alban  Lake  and  Monte  Cavo.  Yet  how  else  can  I  tell 
where  we  had  our  Maying  ?  The  donkey  path  from 
Albano  up  to  Palazzuola —  and  there  is  no  other  way 
of  going  up  —  zigzags  along  the  side  of  the  hill,  which 
is  the  south  shore  of  the  Alban  Lake.  Almost  to  the 
last  it  is  thickly  wooded ;  looking  at  this  south  shore, 
from  a  distance,  those  who  have  been  through  the  path 
can  trace  its  line  faintly  marked  among  the  tree-tops, 
like  a  fine  thread  indenting  them ;  but  strangers  to  it 
would  never  dream  that  it  was  there.  The  path  is 
narrow ;  only  wide  enough  for  two  donkeys  to  pass, 
if  both  behave  well. 

On  the  left  hand  you  look  down  into  the  mystic  lake, 
which  is  always  dark  and  troubled,  no  matter  how 
blue  the  sky  ;  never  did  I  see  a  smile  or  a  placid  look 
of  rest  on  the  Alban  Lake.  Doubtless  it  is  still  linked 
with  fates  and  oracles  we  do  not  know.     On  the  rio^ht 


84  A   MA  Y-DA  V  IN  ALBANO. 

hand  the  hill  stretches  up,  sometimes  sharply  in  cliffs, 
sometimes  in  gentle  slopes  with  moist  hollows  full  of 
ivies  and  ferns;  everywhere  are  flowers  in  clusters, 
beds,  thickets.  It  seemed  paltry  to  think  of  putting  a 
few  into  a  basket,  hopeless  to  try  to  call  the  roll  of  their 
names.  First  come  the  vetches  —  scrambling  in  and 
out,  hooking  on  to  everything  without  discrimination  ; 
surely  a  vetch  is  the  most  easily  contented  of  plants ; 
it  will  hold  by  a  grass  stalk,  or  an  ilex  trunk,  or  he  flat 
on  the  roadside,  and  blossom  away  as  fast  as  it  can  in 
each  place.  Yellow,  and  white,  and  crimson,  and  scar- 
let, and  purple,  and  pink,  and  pale  green  ;  —  seven 
different  vetches  we  brought  home.  Periwinkle, 
matted  and  tangled,  with  flowers  one  inch  and  a  half 
in  diameter  (by  measurement)  ;  violets  in  territories, 
and  of  all  shades  of  blue ;  Solomon's-seals  of  three 
different  kinds ;  dark  blue  bee-larkspur  whose  stems 
were  two  feet  high;  white  honeysuckle  wreathing 
dowm  from  tall  trees;  feathery  eupatoriums;  great  arums, 
not  growing  like  ours,  on  a  slender  stalk,  but  looking 
like  a  huge  cornucopia  made  out  of  yellow  corn-husks, 
with  one  end  set  in  the  ground;  red  catchfly  and 
white ;  tiny  pinks  not  bigger  than  heads  of  pins ; 
clovers  of  new  sorts  and  sizes ;  one  of  a  delicate  yel- 
low, a  pink  one  in  small  flat  heads,  and  another  grow- 
ing in  plumes  or  tassels  two  inches  long,  crimson  at 
base  and  shading  up  to  white  at  top.  One  could  not 
fancy  this  munched  in  mouthfuls  even  by  sacred  cat- 
tle ;  it  should  be  eaten,  head  by  head,  like  asparagus, 
nibbled  slowly  down  to  the  luscious  color  at  the  stem. 
The  holly  was  in  blossom  and  the  white  thorn,  and 
huge  bushes  of  yellow  broom  swung  out  across  our 
path  at  every  turn ;  we  thought  they  must  light  it  up 
at  night.  Here  and  there  were  communities  of  crimson 
cyclamens,  that  most  bewildering  of  all  Italy's  flowers. 
"  Mad  violets  "  the  Italians  call  them,  and  there  is  a 
pertinence  in  the  name;  they  hang  their  heads  and 
look  down  as  if  no  violet  could  be  more  shy,  but  all 


A   MA  Y-DA  V  IN  ALBANO. 


85 


the  while  their  petals  turn  back  like  the  ears  of  a 
vicious  horse,  and  their  whole  expression  is  of  the  most 
fascinating  mixture  of  modesty  and  mischief.  Always 
with  the  cyclamens  we  found  the  forget-me-nots,  nod- 
ding above  them  in  fringing  canopies  of  blue ;  also  the 
little  flower  that  the  Italians  call  forget-me-not,  which 
is  the  tiniest  of  things,  shaped  like  our  forget-me-not, 
but  of  a  pale  purple  color.  Dandelions  there  were  too, 
and  buttercups,  warming  our  hearts  to  see ;  we  would 
not  admit  that  they  were  any  more  golden  than  under 
the  colder  sun  where  we  had  first  picked  them.  Upon 
the  chickweed,  however,  we  looked  in  speechless 
wonder :  chickweed  it  was,  and  no  mistake,  —  but  if 
the  canary-birds  in  America  could  only  see  it !  One 
bud  would  be  a  breakfast.  One  bud,  do  I  say  ?  I  can 
fancy  a  thrifty  Dicky  eating  out  a  ragged  hole  in  one 
side,  like  a  robin  from  a  cherry,  and  leaving  the  rest 
for  next  day.  The  flowers  are  as  wonderful  as  the 
buds,  whitening  the  ground  and  the  hedges  every- 
where with  their  shining  white  stars,  as  large  as  silver 
quarters  of  dollars  used  to  be. 

Now  I  come  with  shamefacedness  to  speak  of  the 
flowers  whose  names  I  did  not  know.  What  brutish 
people  we  are,  even  those  of  us  who  think  we  love 
Nature  well,  to  live  our  lives  out  so  ignorant  of  her 
good  old  famihes !  We  are  quite  sure  to  know  the 
names  and  generations  of  hundreds  of  insignificant 
men  and  women,  merely  because  they  go  to  our  church, 
or  live  in  our  street;  and  we  should  feel  ourselves 
much  humiliated  if  we  were  not  on  what  is  called 
"  speaking  terms  "  with  the  best  people  wherever  we 
go.  But  we  are  not  ashamed  to  spend  summer  after 
summer  face  to  face  with  flowers  and  trees  and  stones, 
and  never  so  much  as  knoAV  them  by  name.  I  wonder 
they  treat  us  so  well  as  they  do,  provide  us  with  food 
and  beauty  so  often,  poison  us  so  seldom.  It  must  be 
only  out  of  the  pity  they  feel,  being  diviner  than  we. 

The  flowers  which  I  did  not  know  were  many  more 


86  A   MA  Y-DA  Y  IN  A  LB  A  NO. 

than  those  which  I  knew,  and  most  of  them  I  cannot 
describe.  There  was  a  bhie  flower  like  a  Uverwort, 
only  larger  and  lighter,  and  with  a  finely  notched 
green  leaf;  there  was  a  tiny  beU-shaped  flower,  yellow, 
growing  by  twos  and  threes,  and  nodding  perpetually ; 
there  was  a  trumpet-shaped  flower  the  size  of  a  thim- 
ble, which  had  scarlet  and  blue  and  purple  all  blended 
together  in  fine  lines  and  shadings;  there  was  another 
trumpet-shaped  flower,  quite  small,  which  had  its  blue 
and  purple  and  scarlet  in  separate  trumpets  but  on  one 
stem  ;  there  was  a  tiny  blue  flower,  shaped  like  a  ver- 
bena, but  set  at  top  of  a  cluster  of  shut  buds  whose 
hairy  calyxes  were  of  a  brilliant  claret  red ;  there  was 
a  yellow  flower,  tube-shaped,  slender,  long,  white  at 
the  brim  and  brown  at  the  base,  and  set  by  twos,  in 
shelter  of  the  joining  of  its  leaves  to  the  stalk ;  there 
was  a  fine  feathery  white  flower,  in  branching  heads, 
hke  our  wild  parsley,  but  larger  petalled,  and  a  white, 
star-shaped  flower  which  ran  riot  everywhere;  and 
besides  these,  W'ere  so  man)'  others  which  I  have  no 
colors  to  paint,  that  at  night  of  this  wonderful  May- 
day, when  we  numbered  its  flowers,  there  were  fifty- 
two  kinds. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  woods  upon  the  craggy  pre- 
cipices near  the  convent,  we  found  the  rocks  covered 
with  purple  and  pink  thyme.  The  smell  of  it,  crushed 
under  the  donkey  s  hooft,  was  delicious.  Somebody 
was  homesick  enough  to  say  ihat  it  was  like  going 
across  a  New  England  kitchen,  the  day  before  Thanks- 
giving, and  spilling  the  sweet  marjoram. 

The  door  of  the  cloister  was  wide  open.  Two  monks 
were  standmg  just  outside,  absorbed  in  watching 
an  artist  who  was  making  a  sketch  of  the  old  fountain. 
The  temptation  was  too  strong  for  one  member  of  our 
party  ;  when  nobody  looked,  she  sprang  in  and  walked 
on.  determined  to  have  one  look  over  the  parapet 
down  into  tlie  lake.  She  found  herself  under  old  ilex- 
trees,  among  dark  box  hedges,  and  the  stone  parapet 


A  MAY-DAY  IN  A  LB  A  NO.  87 

many  rods  ahead.  A  mouk,  weeding  among  the  cab- 
bages, lifted  his  head,  turned  pale  at  sight  of  her,  and 
looked  instantly  down  at  his  weeding  again,  doubt- 
less crossing  himself,  and  praying  to  be  kept  from 
temptation.  She  saw  other  monks  hurrying  to  and 
fro  at  end  of  the  garden,  evidently  consulting  what 
was  to  be  done.  She  knew  no  one  of  them  would 
dare  to  come  and  speak  to  a  woman,  so  she  pushed  on 
for  the  parapet,  and  reached  it.  Presently  a  workman, 
not  a  monk,  came  running  breathlessly,  "  Signorina, 
Signorina,  it  is  not  permitted  to  enter  here," 

"I  do  not  understand  Italian,"  said  she,  smiling 
and  bowing,  and  turning  away  and  looking  over  the 
parapet.  Down,  down,  hundreds  of  feet  below,  lay 
the  lake,  black,  troubled,  unfathomed.  A  pebble  could 
have  been  swung  by  a  string  from  this  parapet  far  out 
into  the  lake.  It  was  a  sight  not  to  be  forgotten.  The 
workman  gesticulated  with  increased  alarm  and  hor- 
ror :  "  0  dearest  Signorina,  indeed  it  is  impossible 
for  you  to  remain  here.  The  holy  fathers,"  —  at  this 
moment  the  donkey  man  came  hurrying  in  for  dear 
life,  with  most  obsequious  and  deprecating  gestures 
and  words,  beckoning  the  young  lady  out,  and  explain- 
ing that  it  was  all  a  mistake,  that  the  Signorina  was 
Inglese  and  did  not  understand  a  word  of  Italian,  for 
which  gratuitous  lie  I  hope  he  may  be  forgiven.  I  am 
sure  he  enjoyed  the  joke ;  at  any  rate,  we  did,  and  I 
shall  always  be  glad  that  one  woman  has  been  inside 
the  closed  cloister  of  Palazzuola,  and  looked  from  its 
wall  down  into  the  lake.  1 

We  climbed  round  the  convent  on  a  narrow  rocky 
path  overhanging  the  lake,  to  see  an  old  tomb  "  sup- 
posed to  be  that  of  Cneius  Cornelius  Scipio  Hispal- 
lus."  We  saw  no  reason  to  doubt  its  being  his.  Then 
we  climbed  still  farther  up,  into  a  field  where  there  was 
the  most  wonderful  massing  of  flowers  we  had  yet 
seen :  the  whole  field  was  literally  a  tangle  of  many- 
colored  vetches,  clovers,   chickweed,  and    buttercups. 


88  A   MA  Y-DA  Y  IN  ALBANO. 

We  stumbled  and  caught  our  feet  in  the  vetches,  as 
one  does  in  blackberry-vines ,  but  if  we  had  fallen  we 
should  have  fallen  into  the  snowy  arms  of  the  white 
narcissus,  with  which  the  whole  field  glistened  like  a 
silver  tent  under  the  sun.  Never  have  I  seen  any 
flower  show  so  solemnly  beautiful,  unless  it  might  have 
been  a  great  morning  opening  I  once  saw  of  giant 
pond-Ulies,  in  a  pond  on  Block  Island.  But  here  there 
were,  in  addition  to  the  glittering  white  disks,  purple 
and  pink  and  yellow  orchids,  looking,  as  orchids  always 
do,  like  imprisoned  spirits  just  about  to  escape. 

As  we  came  down  the  mountain  the  sunset  lights 
kindled  the  whole  Campagna  into  a  flaming  sea.  The 
Mediterranean  beyond  seemed,  by  some  strange  opti- 
cal effect,  to  be  turned  up  around  the  horizon,  like  a 
golden  rim  holding  the  misty  sea.  The  lake  looked 
darker  and  darker  at  every  step  of  our  descent.  Mt. 
Soracte  stood  clear  cut  against  the  northern  sky,  and 
between  us  and  it  went  up  the  smoke  of  that  enchant- 
ress, Rome,  the  great  dome  of  St.  Peter's  looming  and 
fading  and  looming  and  fading  again  through  the  yel- 
low mist,  like  a  gigantic  bubble,  as  the  power  of  the 
faith  it  represents  has  loomed,  and  faded,  and  loomed, 
through  aJl  the  ages. 


AN    AFTERNOON    IN    MEMORIAM,    IN 
SALZBURG. 

PARACELSUS,  ST.  RUPERT,  AND  MOZART. 

THESE  were  the  names  on  our  list,  the  guide-book, 
and  not  we,  being  responsible  for  the  odd  suc- 
cession. 

Poor  Paracelsus !  it  has  always  seemed  that  the 
world  dealt  hardly  by  him.  Undoubtedly  he  believed 
that  there  was  an  Elixir  of  Life  which  could  be  put  in 
a  bottle,  and  a  philosopher's  stone,  at  touch  of  which 
all  things  would  turn  into  gold.  We  have  all  been 
searching  after  these  very  things  all  our  days,  and 
without  half  so  much  philanthropy  about  it  as  he  had ; 
for  we  try,  by  secret  ways,  after  only  just  so  much 
elixir  as  will  keep  our  own  poor  little  body  fresh,  and 
enough  gold  to  provide  it  with  clothes  and  pleasures. 
But  he  spoke  openly  of  his  researches,  and  meant  to  sell 
his  elixir  to  the  whole  world,  and  to  hire  out  his 
philosopher's  stone  by  the  day.  Three  hundred  and 
twenty-eight  years  ago  he  died  in  Salzburg,  and  is 
buried  in  the  churchyard  of  San  Sebastian.  The  house 
he  died  in  is  still  pointed  out,  but  that  had  no  interest 
to  us,  while  the  grave  drew  us  strongly.  What  uncon- 
scious tribute  we  pay  to  the  doctrine  of  the  resurrection 
by  the  love  and  honor  in  which  we  hold  graves,  cen- 
tury after  century!  Surely  in  our  hearts  we  believe 
that  each  such  spot  becomes  forever  unlike  all  other 
ground :  by  whatever  process  the  dear  flesh  crumbles, 
returns  to  dust,  and  is  changed  into  the  leaf,  flower, 
and  seed  that  perish,  in  our  hearts  we  believe  that  the 
grave  remains  a  grave,  and  that  at  least  this  much  is  sure ; 


90         AN  AFTERNOON  IN  MEMORIAM, 

that  the  happy,  soaring,  growing  spirit,  which  has  gone 
on  in  the  worlds,  will  never  forget  where  the  tiny  spot 
is  on  this  one  in  which  its  human  body  was  laid. 

In  the  time  of  the  cholera,  old  men  and  women  of 
Salzburg  went  in  crowds  to  pray  over  the  grave  of 
Paracelsus,  hoping  to  secure  his  protection  against  the 
disease ;  such  immortal^  force  is  there  to  an  earnestly 
beUeved  idea.  Paracelsus,  even  dead,  and  three  hun- 
dred years  dead,  still  finds  believers  in  his  Elixir  of  Life, 
Doubtless,  also,  this  praying  saved  many  people  from 
cholera;  faith  being  the  best  Elixir  of  Life  yet  dis- 
covered. 

We  had  no  chance  to  benefit  by  any  efficacy  which 
may  still  linger  in  his  tombstone,  for  find  it  we  could 
not,  though  we  walked  patiently  round  and  round,  and 
over  and  over  the  San  Sebastian  graveyard.  Sacristans 
are  always  out  of  the  way  when  you  wish  them  in,  and 
vice  versa.  There  were  several  sorrowful  people  there, 
planting  flowers  on  a  grave,  and  a  lifeless  old  man 
saying  his  beads  before  a  shrine,  but  no  sacristan,  and 
nobody  who  had  ever  heard  of  Paracelsus.  Probably 
we  saw  the  stone  and  walked  over  it  fifty  times,  for 
there  were  many  so  sunken  and  old  that  we  could  make 
nothing  of  the  letters  on  them,  and  over  the  oldest  and 
most  illegible  we  spent  most  time  and  emotion.  The 
graveyard  is  so  full  of  stones  and  crosses,  and  boxes 
of  earth  with  little  gardens  in  them,  that  it  looks 
like  some  sort  of  sepulchral  shop.  The  crowding  in 
these  German  churchyards  has  something  positively 
blasphemous  about  it,  and  is  noways  redeemed  by  the 
setting  of  flowers  and  hanging  of  wreaths.  The  whole 
expression  is  of  jostle  and  jam,  suggests  all  sorts  of  ir- 
reverent conjectures,  and  robs  the  words  "  God's  Acre  " 
of  all  meaning.  When  God  has  so  many  acres,  it  is  a 
sin  to  so  crowd  graves. 

Around  three  sides  of  the  San  Sebastian  churchyard 
are  cloister-like  galleries,  fenced  off  by  iron  railings, 
and  divided  into  compartments  for  families.     Each  en- 


IN  SALZBURG. 


91 


closure  was  filled  with  plants  in  pots,  running  ivies,  and 
.crosses,  usually  one  large  and  ugly  stone  in  each  com- 
partment, and  on  the  crosses  most  hideous  wreaths 
and  pictures ;  paper  wreaths  of  rusty  black  and  dingy 
white,  looking  more  like  sea-weed  than  anything  else, 
twists  of  old  limp  crape,  old  evergreen  wreaths  dark- 
brown  with  age,  and  common  penny  pictures  with 
tattered  artificial  flowers  round  them.  But  the  final 
horror  was  in  a  sort  of  grotto  near  the  gate.  Behind 
an  iron  railing  in  this  grotto  were  shelves  holding 
rows  of  ghastly  skulls,  carefully  arranged,  piled  one 
above  another,  and  labelled  with  their  names.  Whether 
these  were  skulls  which  had  been  crowded  out  of 
their  graves  by  the  increase  of  population  in  the  San 
Sebastian  churchyard,  I  have  no  right  to  say ;  but  this 
seemed  the  most  probable  solution  of  their  being 
where  they  were.  A  mumbling  old  woman  stood  by 
one  side,  and  peered  in  between  the  rails,  her  head 
shaking  with  palsy,  and  her  poor  skinny  hands  clutch- 
ing a  rosary.  "  We  are  all  alike  in  death,  alike  in 
death,"  muttered  she,  half  to  herself  and  half  to  us. 
We  walked  faster  to  get  away  from  her.  She  sound- 
ed and  felt  like  an  ill  omen. 

Next  on  our  list  came  the  Church  of  St.  Peter's; 
with  enthusiasm  somewhat  damped  as  to  graveyards, 
we  drove  there.  Here,  as  before,  crowded  graves, 
hideous  stones,  faded  wreaths,  and  no  sacristan.  We 
saw  in  the  church  a  monument  to  Michael  Haydn, 
brother  of  the  composer,  too  ugly  to  be  described. 
We  saw  St.  Rupert's  cell,  which  is  a  hole  in  a  rock, 
and  St.  Rupert's  tomb,  and  then  we  went  on,  with 
still  damper  enthusiasm,  to  look  up  Mozart.  This  is 
always  the  way,  I  find,  in  a  day  of  sight-seeing  of  the 
historical  or  memorial  order.  In  the  morning,  heroes 
are  heroes,  and  their  graves  are  shrines.  By  noon, 
they  are  nobodies,  and  you  don't  care  where  they  are 
buried ;  or,  at  least,  you  don't  believe  they  are  buried 
where  people  say  they  are. 


92        AN  AFTERNOON  IN  MEMORIAM, 

But  all  our  weary  indifference  vanished  the  moment 
we  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  chamber  in  which  Salz- 
burg keeps  the  relics  of  her  Mozart.  We  were  met 
by  a  little  sturdy  red-faced  man,  all  smiles,  from  whose 
lips  it  would  not  have  surprised  us  to  hear,  "  Och,  an' 
it 's  mesilf  that 's  afther  bein'  glad  to  say  yees :  an'  ye'll 
plaze  to  walk  in,  shure."  Really,  it  is  impossible  to 
accustom  one's  self  to  this  perpetual  recurrence  of  Cork 
,  m  South  Germany  ;  it  sounds  as  oddly  to  hear  these 
red-headed,  red-faced,  freckled  fellows  speaking  Ger- 
man, as  it  would  to  hear  a  squad  of  laborers  on  the 
Erie  railroad  speaking  Latin.  However,  nothing  but 
German  could  this  httle  man  speak,  and  an  avalanche 
there  was  of  that,  so  enthusiastic  and  warm  was  he  in 
displaying  his  cherished  relics. 

Nothing  daunted  by  our  ignorance  of  his  language, 
he  went  on  and  on,  pouring  out  information,  till,  partly 
by  dint  of  his  reiterations,  and  partly  by  the  mesmeric 
effect  of  his  determination  that  we  should  understand, 
we  really  did  comprehend  much  that  he  said. 

On  the  walls  were  portraits  of  Mozart  at  different 
ages,  beginning  with  him  at  six  years  old,  in  the  court 
dress  which  he  wore  when  he  played  before  Maria 
Theresa.  In  this  he  is  a  round-cheeked,  stupid,  obsti- 
Hate-looking  little  boy,  just  such  as  play  in  the  dirt  in 
every  road  in  Germany  to-day. 

A  large  and  not  very  good  oil-painting  shows  him  as 
a  young  man  playing  a  duet  with  his  sister,  to  the  se- 
vere critic  their  father,  who  sits  by  listening  with  his 
violin  resting  on  his  arm.  Above  them  hangs  the  pic- 
ture of  their  mother,  a  portrait  within  a  portrait,  far 
the  most  striking  face  in  the  group.  If  the  portraits 
be  good,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  however  much  me- 
chanical facility  Mozart  may  have  inherited  from  his 
father,  the  Chapel-Master,  his  fine  quality  of  genius 
came  from  his  mother. 

Constance  Weber,  with  her  hair  in  indescribable  snarl, 
hangs  between  Mozai't's  mother  and  sister.      If  she 


IN  SALZBURG. 


93 


habitually  wore  her  hair  in  that  fashion,  Mozart's  mar- 
riage is  inexplicable.  Farther  on  she  appears  again, 
subdued  into  the  meekest  of  old  ladies,  with  light  curls 
and  a  close  cap,  the  Frau  Nissen.  Her  ''  2d  Mann," 
as  the  good  little  Irishman  wrote  it  down  for  us,  was 
one  Nissen,  a  Danish  consul,  and  a  very  commonplace- 
looking  Nissen  he  was,  if  one  may  judge  from  his  pic- 
ture, which  looked  strangely  out  of  place  in  the  room 
devoted  to  relics  of  Mozart. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  Mozart's  piano,  a 
small  one  of  only  five  octaves,  but  shaped  like  the 
grand  pianos  of  to-day.  Tinkle,  tinkle,  went  the  keys 
under  the  little  man's  red  puffy  fingers.  We  did  not 
dare  ask  him  to  let  it  alone,  but  with  each  note  that 
he  struck  it  became  harder  than  ever  to  fancy  Mozart's 
ever  having  been  seated  before  it.  No  wonder  that 
Beethoven  said  disrespectful  things  of  pianos,  if  this 
be  a  specimen  of  the  best  their  day  afforded.  What 
would  he  and  Mozart  say  to  an  Erard  or  Chickering 
of  1869 !  Against  the  wall  stood  a  still  more  old-fash- 
ioned thing  with  still  more  pathetic  tinkle  to  its  keys, 
a  little  old  spinet,  on  which,  if  we  understood  correctly, 
Mozart  composed  his  Requiem.  This,  too,  we  wished 
to  see  locked  forever;  how  much  more  touching  me- 
morial of  a  great  musician  would  be  his  instrument 
forever  locked,  never  to  be  played  on  by  mortal  hand, 
than  set  wide  open  in  a  museum  to  be  thrummed  by 
masters  and  misses  in  the  same  mood  in  which  they 
would  carve  their  names  on  the  legs,  if  it  were  per- 
mitted. 

My  letter  will  be  too  long,  if  I  teU  in  detail  of  all 
the  interesting  relics  in  this  room ;  manuscript  music, 
composed  and  written  by  Mozart  at  the  age  of  eight ; 
old  exercise  books  from  which  he  had  practised ;  four 
large  volumes  of  manuscript  letters ;  one  short  note 
which  can  be  bought  for  the  small  sum  of  two  hundred 
francs  ;  an  old  frayed  and  faded  satin  letter-case,  which 
was  embroidered  for  him  by  one  of  his  wife's  sister^ 


94  AN  AFTERNOON  IN  MEMORIAM,   ETC. 

and  which  he  always  carried  in  his  pocket ;  a  seal  and 
a  ring  which  he  always  wore ;  these  were  tossing  about 
loose  in  a  common  wooden  box.  and  with  them  a  gar- 
net cross  which  had  belonged  to  his  sister.  We  said 
hard  things  of  the  Frau  Nissen  for  not  having  made 
sure  that  these  treasures  were  kept  sacred  from  public 
view. 

We  bought  a  bad  photograph  of  the  fat  little  boy  in 
court  dress,  wrote  our  names  in  a  big  book,  where  all 
the  musical  and  many  of  the  unmusical  celebrities  of  the 
world  had  written  theirs  before  us,  and  then  we  bade 

good  by  to  the  pleasant  and  voluble  German  Irishman, 
•n  the  way  home  we  looked  at  the  bronze  statue  of 
Mozart  in  the  centre  of  the  Michael  Platz.  It  is  stiff 
and  unmeaning.  Then  we  drove  past  two  houses,  in 
one  of  which  he  was  born,  and  in  the  other  lived ;  but 
by  this  time  we  were  tired  again,  and  were  seized  with 
sudden  doubts  as  to  the  truth  of  the  inscriptions  on 
their  walls.  At  any  rate,  whoever  has  or  has  not  Taeen 
born,  lived,  and  died  in  them,  they  look  exactly  like  four 
fifths  of  the  dreary,  pale-colored  houses  in  Salzsburg. 


THE     RETURNED     VETERANS'    FEST     IN 
SALZBURG. 

"  '  Ah,  that  I  do  not  know,'  qaoth  he ; 
'  But 't  was  a  fkmoos  victory.'  " 

THE  Austrians  must  have  the  same  happy  faculty  of 
being  pleased  about  victories  vsrhich  the  old  man 
in  the  memorable  Waterloo  ballad  had.  Seeing  them 
yesterday  (June  27,  18G9),  one  vi^ould  have  supposed 
that  the  Austrian  eagle  never  slunk  out  of  Italy,  and 
that  every  one  of  these  veterans  had  won  his  title  to 
the  name,  by  helping  on  a  series  of  glorious  successes. 
On  some  of  the  banners  there  were  even  names  of 
places  where  they  had  memorable  defeats,  and  the 
wind  seemed  to  take  particular  pains  to  keep  those 
banners  spread  out  at  full  size;  but  I  dare  say  few 
people  knew  the  difference :  the  beer  was  good,  and 
the  bands  played  the  tunes  of  conquerors. 

All  the  way  from  Innspruck  to  Salzburg  we  had  caught 
glimpses  in  the  little  towns  of  pine  arches,  green  mot- 
toes, and  a  general  expression  of  "  fest "  ;  the  Veterans 
were  in  our  very  train,  many  of  them,  and  we  saw 
them  kissing  each  other,  but  did  not  know  who  they 
were,  nor  understand  what  it  all  meant,  till  at  Salzburg, 
in  the  hall  of  the  Europa,  we  read  the  pink  placard 
giving  the  programme  for  the  Festival  the  next  day. 

They  begin  things  early  in  this  country :  "  Music  at 
six  "  was  first  on  the  list.  Sure  enough,  at  six  o'clock, 
there  it  was,  band  after  band,  and  a  procession  of 
Veterans  (all  under  fifty  years  of  age),  marching  past 
our  windows.  Each  man  had  a  bunch  of  green  leaves 
in  his  hat,  and  one  involuntarily  thought  of  St.  Patrick's 
Day  in  New  York.    At  ten  o'clock  there  was  to  be  a 


96      THE  RETURNED    VETERANS'  FEST 

High  Mass  in  one  of  the  churches:  armed  with  a 
phrase-book  and  a  dictionary,  we  set  out  to  take  part 
in  the  proceedings.  0  the  delusion  of  a  phrase- 
book  I  Lives  there  a  man  who  ever  found  in  one 
the  thing  he  wished  to  say  ?  Who  does  not  throw  it 
down  in  a  rage  a  hundred  times  a  month,  and  resolve 
never  to  look  in  it  again?  And  then  in  cooler  mo- 
ments, when  you  have  no  immediate  need  of  them,  the 
sentences  sound  so  sensible,  so  probable,  that  you  go 
back  again  to  your  old  belief  that  they  must  be  of  use, 
will  certainly  come  in  play  to-morrow.  As  for  pocket 
dictionaries,  they  are  almost  as  vexing  as  the  phrase- 
books.  If  you  have  knowledge  enough  to  get  much 
good  out  of  one,  you  have  knowledge  enough  to  do 
without  one,  and  might  as  well  have  something  else  in 
your  pocket.  But  the  blessed  language  of  signs  I  For 
that  one's  respect  increases  daily  ;  during  this  one  short 
month  in  Germany,  I  have  come  to  doubt  whether  to 
be  a  mute  is  so  terrible  a  thing  as  we  suppose.  Taking 
into  account  that  they  are  usually  born  also  deaf,  and 
thereby  escape  so  much  dreadful  discord  of  -cannon, 
pianos,  and  bad  English,  it  is  by  no  means  clear  which 
way  should  swing  the  balance  of  their  loss  and  gain. 

The  great  element  of  probability  of  our  success  this 
day  was  the  certainty  that  the  driver  of  our  einspanner 
undoubtedly  wanted  to  see  the  same  things  that  we 
wanted  to  see ;  on  this  it  was  safe  to  count.  By  help 
of  this  we  saw  the  Festival,  and  never  once  opened 
our  phrase-book  or  dictionary. 

Firstly,  the  square  in  which  stood  the  church  in 
which  the  mass  was  to  be.  It  was  hung  with  flags, 
and  every  window  was  festooned  with  long  wreaths 
of  green,  fastened  by  rosettes  of  black  and  yellow. 
Unwillingly  enough  we  confessed  to  each  other  that, 
setting  patriotism  aside,  the  effect  of  the  hated  Austrian 
colors  was  finer  than  that  of  blue  and  red.  The  crowd 
was  great,  but  quiet  and  grave  to  an  inexplicable 
degree.     It  seems  to  me,  thus  far,  even  truer  of  the 


IN  SALZBURG. 


97 


Germans  than  of  the  Americans,  that  they  take  their 
pleasure  solemnly.  The  other  day  I  saw  forty  or  fifty 
peasants  at  a  wedding  dance  in  a  little  inn,  and,  though 
I  watched  them  for  half  an  hour,  not  a  laugh  did  I  see, 
except  on  one  or  two  of  the  youngest  faces,  and  they 
were  laughing  at  us.  The  rest  whirled  slowly  round, 
with  a  stoUd,  uninterested  expression  which  could  not 
be  outdone  in  the  Ocean  House  in  Newport.  Several 
of  the  men  had  the  comfort  of  cigars  in  th'eir  mouths, 
which  the  Newport  men  can't  have.  It  seems  some- 
thing of  a  feat  to  waltz  and  smoke  at  the  same  time. 

It  was  said  that  more  than  six  thousand  Veterans 
had  come  to  this  Festival.  I  think  there  were  almost 
as  many  more  of  the  peasants,  who  had  come  in  from 
the  country  to  look  at  them.  It  was  hard  to  move  in 
the  streets.  Country  people  always  seem  to  have 
more  than  the  usual  allowance  of  elbow ;  and  when  to 
the  world-wide  country  elbow  is  added  the  G-erman 
woman's  hip,  the  estimate  of  standing  room  for  each 
person  must  be  made  big.  The  men  were  gayer  than 
the  women;  truer  to  nature  in  that,  I  suppose,  than 
we,  since  in  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl  we  see  always  the 
male  with  brightest  colors.  But  it  strikes  civilized 
eyes  oddly  to  see  men  with  huge  shining  silver  buttons 
on  the  ti-onts  of  their  coats,  two  and  three  rows,  bright 
bows  of  green  or  red  at  the  knee,  and  in  their  hats 
feathers  and  flowers  and  ribbons;  while  women  are 
wearing  plain  short  black  petticoats,  and  on  their  heads 
either  sombre  black  hats,  high  -  crowned,  broad- 
briramed;  and  without  ornament,  except  a  couple  of 
gold  tassels ,  or  else,  still  worse,  a  thick  black  silk  ker- 
chief bound  tight  over  the  whole  head,  low  on  the 
forehead,  down  nearly  to  the  eyebrows,  and  twisted 
in  some  mysterious  knot  at  the  back,  so  as  to  leave 
one  long  ear-like  flap  hanging  down  on  each  side. 
Anything  uglier  could  not  be  invented.  It  made  young, 
good-looking  faces  hideous ;  and  on  old  and  plain  ones 
the  effect  was  uncanny.     Many  of  the  women  wore 

6  O 


g8      THE  RETURNED    VETERANS  FEST 

round  their  necks  broad  necklaces  of  twenty  or  thirty 
rows  of  small  silver  beads,  clasped  tight  in  front  by  a 
great  buckle  of  colored  stones  and  gilt  These  seemed, 
however,  to  be  worn  less  for  ornament  than  to  pre- 
vent or  conceal  the  frightful  goitre  with  which  four 
fifths  of  them  were  disfigured.  One's  first  sight  of  a 
goitre  swelling  is  something  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Mingling  in  picturesquely  with  the  peasants  from 
the  country,  and  the  common  people  of  Salzburg,  were 
to  be  seen  here  and  there  showy  Austrian  officers,  Eng- 
lish heads  of  families,  with  the  families  behind  in  water- 
proof, commercial  travellers  of  all  nations,  nobilities  in 
fine  carriages,  and  American  women,  —  to  be  known 
from  all  the  rest  by  their  quick  peering  faces,  and  their 
being  sure  to  get  in  everywhere.  Really,  I  think  that 
the  day  after  Babel  could  not  have  seen  on  that  memo- 
rable plain  more  sorts  of  men  than  made  up  the  crowd 
in  this  square  yesterday. 

At  last,  by  much  help  from  many  people,  we  got 
into  the  church  and  a  seat.  A  High  Mass  is  always 
an  ordeal  of  endurance;  but  this  one  was  made  endur- 
able by  intervals  of  Mozart's  music,  and  by  the  Vet- 
erans' faces.  They  filled  the  seats,  and  stood  in  double 
rows  down  the  central  aisle.  Had  I  seen  them  in 
New  York  I  should  have  said,  "  From  where  did  all 
these  Irishmen  come?"  And  those  that  did  not  look 
like  Irishmen  looked  like  Yankees.  Dark  hair  and 
eyes  were  the  exception ;  red  hair  and  fi-eckles  were 
common ;  and  almost  universal  was  the  hard,  keen, 
overworked  look  which  we  know  so  well  in  America. 
The  more  intelligent  the  face,  the  surer  it  was  to  have 
this  expression.  The  poorer  peasants  looked  calmer 
and  stupid.  Next  me  sat  a  barefooted  boy,  with  a 
heavy,  unawakened  face.  He  wore  in  his  hat  a  gray 
feather  and  an  Edelweiss.  When  I  made  signs  to  him 
that  I  wanted  the  Edelweiss,  and  took  it  out  of  his 
hat,  and  put  fifteen  kreutzers  in  his  hand  in  exchange 
for  it,  he  looked  blankly  at  the  money  and  at  me,  as 


IN  SALZBURG. 


99 


if  he  had  not  common  belief  in  his  senses.  But  his 
mother  kissed  my  hand  in  gratitude. 

At  the  end  of  the  mass  the  organ  and  band  struck 
up  one  of  Wagner's  best  marches,  and  we  and  the  Vet- 
erans poured  out.  The  Veterans  had  the  best  of  it 
though,  and  got  so  firmly  wedged  in  the  square,  ahead 
of  us,  that  before  we  could  fight  our  way  through  to 
our  carriage,  we  were  as  tired  as  ever  they  were  on 
the  fields  of  Lombardy. 

The  banners  and  flags  were  all  stacked  on  one  side 
of  the  square,  and  made  a  fine  show  of  color  beyond 
the  swaying  mass  of  the  Veterans'  black  hats,  with  the 
green  leaves  and  feathers  in  them  From  a  window 
on  the  right,  orators  began  to  speak  most  eloquently, 
I  believe ;  but  I  only  know  that  they  all  gesticulated 
wildly  with  white-gloved  hands,  and  waited,  like  all 
stump  speakers,  at  the  places  where  they  expected  the 
Veterans  to  throw  up  their  hats  and  cheer. 

In  the  afternoon  the  performances  were  to  consist 
of  music,  cakes,  and  ale  on  the  Monchsberg.  This 
sounded  simple  and  virtuous;  but  how  little  we 
dreamed  what  it  meant  till  we  saw  it.  Why  the 
Monchsberg — Monk's  Hill  —  is  so  called  I  do  not  know, 
unless  it  be  because  it  is  a  continuation  of  the  high 
rocky  ridge  on  which  the  great  castle  of  Salzburg 
stands ;  and  in  that  the  archbishops  of  Salzburg  lived, 
held  court,  and  defied  their  enemies  for  centuries.  It 
is  a  wonderful  wall  of  rock,  so  steep  that  it  can  only  be 
ascended  by  flights  of  stairs;  so  broad  that  its  top 
spreads  out  into  fields  and  valleys  and  groves,  as  it 
were,  a  second  story  of  country,  hundreds  of  feet  up 
in  the  air.  At  its  narrowest  point  it  has  been  tunnelled, 
and  the  tunnel  is  four  hundred  and  fifteen  feet  long. 
It  was  built  by  an  Archbishop  Sigismond,  a  hundred 
years  ago,  and  will  keep  him  in  memory  so  long  as  the 
world  stands.  A  clumsy  stone  head  of  him  stands 
over  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel,  and  looks  down  into 
the  road,  with  the  superfluous  boast,  "  Te  Saxa  co- 
quunter  " 


lOO    THE  RETURNED    VETERANS  FEST 

They  tell  j^ou  that  from  bottom  to  top  of  the  Monchs- 
berg  it  is  only  two  hundred  and  eighty  steps.  "  0," 
you  say  gayly,  "  that  is  nothing,"  and  spring  up. 
If  they  had  mentioned  also  that  the  staircase  is  for 
the  most  part  steep  as  a  ladder,  and  intersected  by 
long  stretches  of  path  almost  as  hard  to  climb  as  the 
ladder,  one  could  better  reckon  the  cost  of  going  up. 
Also,  both  staircase  and  path  are  very  narrow,  and 
when,  as  yesterday,  throngs  of  people  are  coming 
down,  it  adds  sensibly  to  the  fatigue  of  going  up  to  be 
obliged  to  swing  on  a  pivot  once  in  two  minutes,  to 
let  big  German  women,  big  German  soldiers  with 
pipes,  children  by  dozens,  and  men  with  beer  casks  go 
by.  We  swung  off  in  this  way  and  let  so  many  hun- 
dreds pass  us,  that  we  almost  thought  the  Festival  must 
be  coming  to  an  end.  But  how  we  laughed  at  our 
want  of  comprehension  of  what  a  German  out-door 
Test  could  be,  when  we  first  caught  sight  of  the  broad, 
crowded  plateau,  and  realized  that  the  hundreds  we 
had  met  were  only  two  or  three  people  who  had  to  go 
home  early.  I  do  not  know  how  many  acres  full  of 
men  and  women  there  were.  T  only  know  that  the 
space  they  filled  was  so  large  that  at  the  farthest  end 
of  it  the  gay  colors  of  the  banners  could  scarcely  be 
distinguished,  and  two  full  bands  and  an  orator  could 
be  going  on  at  once  and  not  jangle  with  each  other; 
and  yet  from  the  higher  ground  the  whole  could  be 
seen,  one  great  sea  of  good-fellowship.  On  the  outer 
edges  of  the  crowd,  under  trees,  were  rows  of  booths; 
beer,  brown-bread,  and  snaky  sausages  for  the  mass ; 
white  bread,  cakes,  and  candies  for  the  few ;  the  whole 
hillside  was  settee ;  greener-cushioned  never  mortals 
had ;  but  it  was  too  much  stuffed  with  stone,  and  in 
spite  of  the  picturesqueness  and  jollity  of  the  scene, 
bones  would  ache,  especially  if  they  were  withheld  by 
superfluous  scruples  from  doing  among  Germans  exactly 
as  Germans  did,  and  lying  down  at  full  length  every 
now  and  then  to  rest. 


IN  SALZBURG.  loi 

The  family  groups  sitting  here  were  pleasant  to  see ; 
father,  mother,  six  or  eight  children,  all  drinking  beer, 
even  the  baby  that  could  not  speak  plain,  all  nibbling 
at  the  ends  of  sticks  of  sausage,  all  good-natured  but 
not  talkative. 

They  do  more  thinking  than  their  share,  this  G-er- 
man  nation;  the  world  is  the  better  for  it,  no  doubt, 
but  if  they  could  only  borrow  a  laugh  from  Italy,  it 
would  do  them  good. 

Next  to  us  on  the  hillside  sat  a  young  German, 
evidently  a  mechanic  of  some  sort,  who  had  brought 
his  sister  and  sweetheart  to  the  Fest.  They  had  one 
huge  glass  mug  of  beer  between  them,  and  I  observed 
that  the  man  drank  first  and  oftenest ;  for  the  rest, 
their  feast  was  of  white  bread  and  sausage ;  and  they 
munched  and  looked  at  each  other,  and  looked  at  each 
other  and  munched,  and  not  a  dozen  times  did  they 
open  their  mouths  to  speak  during  the  two  hours  and 
a  half  that  we  sat  by  their  side,  yet  they  looked  the 
picture  of  content. 

The  Veterans,  though  there  were  six  thousand  of 
them  on  the  ground,  were  lost  in  the  crowd.  Now 
and  then  half  a  dozen  of  them  would  be  seen  sitting 
and  smoking  together,  but  they  formed  no  distinguish- 
able feature  of  the  occasion  which  bore  their  name. 
Just  as  we  were  unwillingly  beginning  to  think  of  the 
stairs  which  lay  between  us  and  our  carriage,  a  sudden 
stir  among  the  people,  and  much  taking  off  of  hats, 
announced  the  arrival  of  dignitaries. 

There  they  were,  at  our  very  elbow,  and  no  instinct 
had  told  us,  —  the  Archduke,  and  several  ladies  and 
officers  of  the  court.  By  some  magic  chairs  appeared, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  the  group  were  seated  in  the 
centre  of  a  hollow  squg-re  of  staring  faces.  I  never 
supposed  that  divinity  hedging  a  king  could  be  so  un- 
dignified and  droll  as  was  the  fat  pompous  little  man 
who  went  up  and  down  before  and  behind,  and  pushed 
the  people  back  if  they  crowded  up  too  close.     Even 


I02    THE  RETURNED    VETERANS'  FEST. 

at  risk  of  getting  a  wave  from  his  official  hand,  we 
walked  several  times  quite  close  to  the  backs  of  the 
sublime  people,  and  took  our  fill  of  looking  at  court 
clothes.  White  muslin  over  blue  silk,  Valenciennes 
lace,  and  fine  white  straw  hats  with  blue  crape  stream- 
ers for  the  women,  very  dainty  and  pretty,  but  just 
such  as  any  woman  may  buy  in  New  York  at  Virefolet's 
or  Baillard's ;  but  for  the  officers  —  ah,  are  there  else- 
where in  the  world  such  colors  as  the  cherry  scarlet  gray 
blue,  pomegranate  red,  and  deep  sea  green  which  these 
Austrian  officers  wear  ?  And  then  the  fit  of  them  I 
It  is  profane  to  suppose  they  are  cut  and  made.  It  is 
the  coats  that  come  first ;  and  the  men  are  melted  over 
night  and  poured  in  in  the  morning. 

The  Archduke  has  light  blue  eyes,  and  a  weak  cruel 
face  ;  I  was  glad  he  was  only  the  Emperor's  brother ; 
I  could  fancy  his  doing  deadly  harm  with  power.  The 
women  were  beautiful,  the  first  beautiful  women  I 
have  seen  in  Germany.  Full  into  the  face  of  the  young- 
est and  most  beautiful  of  them,  the  handsomest  of  the 
officers  puffed  clouds  on  clouds  of  tobacco-smoke  as 
he  stood  talking  with  her.  This  universal  smoking  in 
Germany  is  enough  to  cure  one  of  all  fancy  for  the 
practice ;  cars,  dining-rooms,  all  m.ade  insufferable  by 
it ;  and  women  sitting  by  and  breathing  it  all  in,  hour 
after  hour,  as  if  it  were  the  wholesomest,  most  delicious 
air. 

We  lingered  till  sunset ;  then,  though  nobody  ap- 
peared to  be  going  away,  we  found  the  stairways  just 
as  crowded  as  before  with  ups  and  downs ;  untfl  mid- 
night, they  told  us  the  Fest  would  last. 

This  morning  at  six  o'clock,  music  again,  and  more 
Veterans,  but  such  different-looking  Veterans  from 
those  of  yesterday !  Slowly  they  dragged  along  to  the 
railway-station  to  take  the  early  train  ;  the  green  leaves 
in  their  hats  drooping  and  wilted,  and  their  whole 
atmosphere  bearing  that  unmistakable  expression,  com- 
mon, the  whole  world  over,  to  "  next  morning." 


A  MORNING  IN  THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM 
IN  THE  VATICAN. 

CRETE  had  a  Labyrinth,  and  Rome  has  a  Vatican. 
I  wish  I  knew  how  many  times  the  Labyrinth 
could  be  contained  in  the  Vatican,  and  if  it  would  not 
seem  a  place  for  plain  sailing  in  comparison-  When 
you  read  in  Murray  that  the  Vatican  has  four  thousand 
rooms,  it  conveys  no  precise  idea  to  your  mind ;  when 
you  look  at  the  huge,  irregular  pile  itself)  which  ap- 
pears to  have  no  particular  beginning  and  never  to 
leave  oiF,  and  to  make  St  Peter's  look  trig  and  tidy  be- 
side it,  even  then  you  do  not  comprehend ;  when  you 
are  told  that  for  many  years  the  Uttle  chapel  of  San 
Lorenzo,  with  its  solemn  frescos  by  Fra  Angelico,  was 
lost  in  this  labyrinth,  —  utterly  lost  out  of  the  memory 
of  man,  and  was  accidentally  discovered  by  a  G-erman 
artist,  who  had  to  climb  in  through  a  window,  —  even 
then  you  are  not  fully  alive  to  it  Not  until  you  have 
entered,  and  toiled  and  wandered  for  hours,  trying  to 
find  some  gallery  or  chapel  to  which  you  have  been  a 
dozen  times,  and  which  you  proudly  assured  your  con- 
fiding friend  you  could  "  go  straight  to,"  do  you  begin 
to  realize  what  the  Vatican  is  like.  If  you  could  only 
"  bark "  your  way,  as  you  do  in  other  wildernesses, 
there  would  be  some  hope ;  but,  if  you  ever  do  turn 
the  same  comer  twice,  you  never  know  it,  and  the 
more  you  try  to  remember  just  how  you  went  the  last 
time,  the  less  likely  you  will  be  to  go  that  way.  There 
are  in  the  guide-books  plans  of  the  Vatican.  They' are 
of  use,  if  carefully  studied  at  home ;  but  once  take  them 
out  on  the  ground,  after  you  are  already  a  little  con- 


I04  THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 

fused,  and  you  are  hopelessly  lost.  Tour  bewilder- 
ment is  instantly  heightened  by  a  sense  of  conspicuous 
humiliation,  which  is  unbearable.  Twos  and  threes,  and 
sixes,  and  sevens  of  all  nations  come  immediately  in 
sight,  walking  toward  and  past  you,  —  heartless  Levites, 
who  know  the  road.  Never  have  I  found  the  Samari- 
tan of  the  Vatican ;  no,  though  I  have  sat  begging  by 
the  way.  But  I  have  always  comforted  myself  by  be- 
lieving that  the  Levites  also  got  lost  before  they  had 
gone  far ;  in  fact,  I  myself  have  sometimes  come  upon 
them,  later,  standing  stock-still  and  helpless,  while  I,  in 
my  turn,  passed  by  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  rawest  of  the  raw  days  for 
which  winter  in  sunny  Italy  is  not,  but  ought  to  be, 
famous,  that  we  saw  the  Etruscan  Museum.  We  had 
walked  round  and  round  it,  and  over  it,  and  under  it, 
till  we  had  almost  ceased  to  believe  in  it,  before  we 
found  the  door.  Once  in,  we  should  have  known,  even 
without  the  inscription  over  the  entrance,  that  we  were 
in  the  right  place.  On  three  sides  of  the  small  vesti- 
bule lay  life-size  figures  of  terra-cotta ;  a  man,  crowned 
with  a  wreath  of  laurel,  and  two  women,  wearing 
necklaces,  bracelets,  and  rings.  They  were  a  good 
deal  chipped  and  knocked,  these  old  Etrurians,  and  one 
of  the  women  must  have  been  a  sad  fright  in  her  day, 
if  her  portrait  were  a  good  one ;  but,  true  or  false,  high 
or  low,  there  they  lay,  three  citizens  of  Etruria,  in 
solid  shapes  of  stone,  as  big  as  they  were  when  alive, 
and  more  famous  than  they  ever  dreamed  of  being. 
On  the  walls  were  fastened  several  horses'  heads, 
taken  from  the  entrance  to  somebody's  tomb.  Among 
the  Etrurians,  it  seems,  the  horse  was  an  emblem  of 
the  passage  of  the  soul  to  the  other  world ;  from  which 
it  is  fair  to  infer  that  break-neck  riding  and  driving  are 
not  modern  inventions.  In  the  middle  of  the  vestibule 
was  a  great  scaldino,  filled  with  red-hot  coals ;  and  the 
two  custodi  of  the  museum  stood  over  it,  blue  and 
shivering,  trying  to  warm  their  hands.     Of  all  flimsy 


THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 


105 


pretences,  the  scaldino  is  the  flimsiest  and  most  pre- 
tentious. Why  a  huge  kettle  of  coals,  which  glow  red 
to  the  eye,  and  breathe  hot  and  choking  to  the  lungs, 
cannot  keep  you  warm  five  minutes,  is  unexplainable  ; 
but  it  does  not.  You  rub  your  hands  over  them  with 
a  vigor  which  would  warm  you  anywhere,  and  you 
might  as  well  spare  yourself  the  unwholesome  stifle 
of  the  scorched  air. 

When  the  custodi  saw  us  take  from  under  our  cloaks 
a  big  green  bound  book,  and  walk  off  independently 
into  the  first  chamber  on  the  right,  they  roused  a  little 
from  their  torpidity,  and  followed  us  to  see  what  man- 
ner of  people  those  might  be  who  needed  none  of  their 
help.  Ah !  we  were  luckier  people  than  they  knew, 
for  the  book  was  "  Dennis's  Cities  and  Cemeteries  of 
Etruria."  Dennis's  description  of  this  museum  is  so 
accurate  as  to  seem  marvellous  when  we  are  told  that 
it  was  written  entirely  from  memory,  —  the  Pontifical 
Government,  for  some  reasons  best  known  to  itself, 
not  allowing  any  memoranda  to  be  made  in  the 
rooms. 

The  first  chamber  is  filled  with  cinerary  urns,  or  ash- 
chests.  Undertaking  must  have  been  a  more  cheerful 
trade  in  those  days  than  in  these,  and  have  offered 
openings  for  fine  artistic  talent ;  in  fact,  these  carved 
ash-chests  looked  so  little  like  things  belonging  to  burial, 
that  it  was  hard  to  beheve  that  they  had  not  been 
meant  originally  for  some  other  purpose.  There  was 
an  endless  variety  of  them,  —  square  chests,  oblong 
chests,  round  chests,  oval  chests,  big  chests,  little  chests, 
high  and  low  and  wide  and  narrow  chests,  —  carved 
figures  on  all  the  lids  and  on  the  sides,  some  of  them 
mythological  signs,  some  of  them  allegorical  represen- 
tations of  the  last  journey  of  the  inhabitants  of  the 
chest,  in  which  the  soul,  looking  in  nowise  unlike  the 
body,  is  seen,  wrapped  in  a  toga,  sitting  upright  astride 
a  horse,  which  is  led  by  a  frisky  little  demon.  On 
shelves  above  the  chests  were  heads  of  the  same  terra- 
5* 


io6  THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 

cotta,  portraits  of  the  dead.  There  had  been  handles 
to  the  Uds.  Some  of  the  heads  of  Httle  children  were 
very  sweet  and  lifelike  ;  one,  especially,  looked  so  like 
a  baby  I  know,  that  I  started,  and  wondered  in  my  heart 
if  really  just  such  another  darling  had  laughed  and 
played  on  earth  two  thousand  years  ago.  At  the  end 
of  the  chamber  was  a  large  chest,  in  which  had  been 
buried  the  ashes  of  a  husband  and  wife,  who  were 
perhaps  fortunate  enough  to  be  "  not  divided "  in 
their  death,  as  their  full-length  figures  are  carved  on 
the  lid,  lying  fondly  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

In  the  centre  of  the  next  room  stood  a  huge  sar- 
cophagus, of  great  interest  as  an  antiquity,  carved  and 
carved  and  carved  again  with  scenes  from  the  stories 
X)f  Clytemnestra,  and  Orestes,  and  the  Theban  Brothers, 
and  from  thence  all  the  way  back  to  the  brothers  Cain 
and  Abel,  one  would  think.  There  are  minds  which 
take  a  species  of  anatomical,  statistical,  archaeological 
interest  in  this  sort  of  thing ;  and  will  tell  you,  down 
to  the  last  joint  of  Agamemnon's  little  finger,  what  it 
all  means.  But  I  confess  I  hsten  to  their  accounts  with 
a  fatiguing  mixture  of  reverence  and  incredulity.  On 
shelves  in  the  corner  of  this  room  were  some  little 
Btone  huts,  not  more  than  ten  inches  high,  which  in- 
terested me  far  more  than  the  great  historical  sar- 
cophagus. They  were  two  ash-chests  of  the  very  oldest 
forms,  made  to  imitate  the  shape  of  the  low,  round 
huts  of  skins,  stretched  over  cross-poles,  in  which  the 
Latins  lived.  They  made  you  think  of  beehives.  Ashes 
and  bits  of  burnt  bone  were  in  them  still.  They  were 
found,  with  many  other  rare  things,  in  a  big  jar,  hid 
away  in  one  of  the  Alban  Hills ;  and  the  people  whose 
dust  they  held  died  before  Rome  was  a  city. 

After  one  more  room  of  terra-cottas,  urns,  statues, 
and  bass-reliefe,  you  come  to  the  rooms  of  vases.  There 
are  four  of  these  rooms,  and  the  vases  are  arranged  on 
pedestals  and  shelves.  The  first  thing  you  do  is  to  re- 
solve that  you  will  learn  the  names  of  the  different 


THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 


107 


shapes.  In  a  few  minutes  you  persuade  yourself  that 
you  know,  and  will  remember,  which  is  an  amphora, 
a  pelioe,  a  calpis,  and  a  patera.  For  that  one  day  you 
mtII  ;  but  in  a  week  all  that  you  will  know  will  be  that 
the  amphora,  and  the  calpis,  and  the  pelice  are  all  beau- 
tiful kinds  of  jars,  and  that  the  paterae  and  pelices  are 
the  shapes  which  lucky  people  who  have  them  use  for 
card-receivers. 

The  rarest  and  most  beautiful  vases  are  on  single 
pedestals,  in  the  centre  of  the  rooms.  Mythological 
and  historical  scenes  are  painted  on  all  of  them.  One 
of  these  has  a  picture  of  Ajax  and  Achilles  playing  at 
the  game  of  "  Morra,"  which  is  played  all  over  Italy 
to-day.  As  I  write,  some  handsome  Albanese  men  are 
playing  it  under  my  window,  and  shouting  out  the 
numbers  so  loudly  that  I  cannot,  do  what  I  will,  help 
keeping  run  of  their  game.  It  looks  stupid  enough  to 
one  not  born  to  it.  Two  men  thrust  out  their  right 
hands  at  each  other,  shutting  up  some  fingers  and 
opening  others.  Each  man  calls  out  on  the  instant 
what  he  thinks  the  whole  number  of  extended  fingers. 
If  both  are  right  or  both  are  wrong,  nothing  is  counted ; 
but  if  one  only  is  right,  it  counts  one  for  him.  Nobody 
would  suppose  that  a  mistake  could  ever  be  made  in 
calling  the  number;  but  it  is  played  with  lightning 
quickness,  and  there  could  not  be  so  much  excitement 
in  it  if  blunders  were  not  frequent.  On  this  vase  Ajax 
calls  out  "  Four !  "  and  Achilles  "  Three !  "  (the  words, 
printed  in  Greek  letters,  coming  out  of  their  mouths,) 
and  both  the  heroes  look  as  intent  as  if  they  were 
planning  a  battle. 

Some  of  the  scenes  are  very  comic,  and  belong  to  all 
time.  For  instance,  a  short-legged  fat  man,  looking  up 
hopelessly  at  his  lady-love,  sitting  in  a  high  windo\y, 
and  a  kind  friend  appearing  in  the  distance,  bringing  a 
ladder  to  his  assistance.  This  was  none  the  funnifer 
when  it  was  meant  to  show  Jupiter  serenading  Alc- 
mena,  and  Mercury  running  to  help  him  up,  than  it 


^o8  THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 

W^ould  be  as  a  passage  from  the  life  of  our  Mr.  Fal- 
stafF.  On  another  vase  is  a  picture  of  a  tall  boy,  with 
a  hoop  in  one  hand  and  a  cock  in  the  other.  His 
whole  expression  shows  that  he  has  stolen  the  cock, 
and  is  trying  to  make  off  slyly  with  it,  —  which  is  a 
hard  thing  to  manage,  as  he  has  no  clothes  on.  Strid- 
ing along  behind  him  comes  a  man,  either  the  owner 
of  the  cock  or  the  boy's  teacher,  with  a  long  switch  in 
his  hand,  from  which  there  is  plainly  no  escape  for  the 
young  thief. 

In  the  last  vase-room  are  many  curious  goblets,  — 
some  with  great  eyes  painted  on  them;  some  with 
"  Hail,  drink  !  "  which  seems  a  good  and  friendly  motto 
to  set  on  the  rim  of  glasses  in  a  hospitable  house.  But 
now  we  have  reached  the  ninth  room,  fullest  of  won-'^ 
ders.  To  begin  with,  what  is  this  ?  A  small  iron  bed- 
stead ?  Exactly  that.  And  I  dare  say  generations  of 
single  Etrurians  slept  on  it.  Finally,  it  came  to  be  the 
bier-bedstead  for  the  last  long  sleep  of  somebody ;  and 
in  his  tomb  at  Cervetri  it  was  found.  Monsignore 
Regolini  and  General  Galassi  discovered  this  tomb ;  and 
it  has  ever  since  been  known  by  their  names.  Anti- 
quaries believe  it  to  be  three  thousand  years  old ;  so  it 
is  possible  to  please  one's  self  with  the  fancy  that  the 
great  warrior  or  priest  who  was  buried  in  it  died  of 
having  eaten  too  much  peacock  at  the  first  supper 
given  to  ^neas  after  his  arrival  in  Italy.  He  must 
have  been  the  best-dressed  man  at  supper,  if  he  wore 
the  magnificent  gold  ornaments  in  which  he  was  buried. 
Here  they  are,  outshining  all  the  other  gold  and  silver 
array  in  the  large  glass  case  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
—  a  broad  gold  breastplate,  embossed  with  twelve 
bands  of  figures,  sphinxes,  goats,  panthers,  deer,  and 
winged  demons ;  another  ornament  for  the  head,  made 
of  two  large  oval  plates,  fastened  together  by  a  broad 
band,  embossed  in  the  same  way,  with  smaller  plates 
and  fringes  to  hang  down  behind,  bracelets  several 
inches  broad,  ear-rings  several  inches  long,  all  matching 


THE  ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM.  109 

the  breastplate.  No  worker  in  gold  to-day  can  equal 
the  shaping  and  chasing  of  these  ornaments.  In  an  inner 
room  of  this  same  tomb  were  found  also  other  brace- 
lets, armlets,  wreaths,  chains,  ear-rings,  and  brooches, 
—  all  of  the  same  exquisite  workmanship ;  and  it  is 
supposed  that  some  woman  of  high  rank,  possibly  a 
priestess,  was  buried  there.  One  wonders  whether  it 
were  honesty  or  superstition  which  kept  tombs  so  safe 
in  Etruria,  and  involuntarily  fancies  the  fate  of  such 
treasures  if  buried  in  public  cemeteries  to-day. 

It  is  hard  to  leave  this  room ;  but  at  the  end  of  a 
day  we  should  not  have  seen  all.  On  the  walls  hang 
rusty  metal  mirrors,  fans,  candelabras,  shields  dented 
in  many  fights,  visors,  axes,  javelins,  cuirasses,  spears, 
and  all  shapes  and  sizes  of  armor.  On  shelves  are  in- 
numerable and  inexplicable  tools  and  instruments,  — 
forks,  and  pins,  and  ladles,  and  strainers,  and  pails,  and 
jugs;  in  cases  by  the  windows  are  pounds  and  pounds 
of  odds  and  ends,  —  coins,  and  weights,  and  clasps,  and 
little  metal  bulls,  and  fishes,  and  cats,  and  daggers,  and 
chains,  and  bits  of  bone,  looking  for  all  the  world  as 
if  they  had  been  emptied  out  of  some  boy-giant's 
pocket.  Here  is  a  curious  stone  bottle,  —  an  ink-bot- 
tle, they  say,  —  on  which  some  idle  scholar  scratched 
off  a  bit  of  his  primer,  "  Ba,  Be,  Bi,  Bo,  Bu,"  in  old 
Pelasgic  letters.  Going  to  school  must  have  been  as 
stupid  then  as  now.  Here  is  a  pair  of  clogs ;  yes, 
real  Etruscan  clogs,  bronze,  filled  in  with  light  wood. 
No.  4-|^  at  least,  and  much  worn  by  some  enterprising 
woman  who  went  out  in  all  weathers  in  Veil.  Here  is 
the  brazier  by  which  she  dried  her  feet  when  she  came 
home,  and  the  shovel  and  tongs  and  poker  lying  across 
the  top,  just  as  she  kept  them.  The  tongs  are  on 
wheels  and  end  in  snakes'  heads,  the  shovel-handle  is 
a  swan's  neck,  and  the  poker  or  rake  finishes  off  with 
a  human  hand. 

Near  these  is  an  oval  silver  casket,  most  exquisitely 
carved,  found  in  a  tomb  at  Vulci.     The  handle  is  made 


no  TH£.   ETRUSCAN  MUSEUM. 

of  two  swans,  one  bearing  a  boy  and  the  other  a  girl, 
holding  on  by  their  arms  round  the  swans'  necks.  In 
this  were  found  a  Httle  hand-mirror,  two  broken  bone 
combs  (0  unneat  woman  of  Vulci),  two  hair-pins,  an 
ear-pick,  and  two  small  pots  of  rouge. 

Three  things  more,  and  we  have  finished  our  glance 
at  this  room,  —  a  Roman  war-chariot,  found  on  the 
Appian  Way,  and  looking  triumphant  still ;  a  great  arm 
and  dolphin's  tail,  of  bronze,  cast  up  by  the  sea  at 
Civita  Vecchia. 

The  next  room  is  hung  with  paintings,  exact  copies 
of  the  painted  walls  of  the  tombs  of  Tarquinii  and 
Veil ;  and  the  next  and  last  is  the  "  Chamber  of  the 
Tomb,"  a  long,  narrow,  low,  dark  room,  fitted  up  in 
imitation  of  the  common  Etruscan  tombs,  —  stone 
couches  on  three  sides,  bronze  and  pottery  hanging  on 
the  walls  and  standing  about,  —  an  exact  reproduction, 
they  say,  of  a  real  tomb.  But  it  gives  you  no  thrill, 
probably  makes  you  smile,  and  remember  things  you 
have  seen  in  panoramas.  The  real  presences  have  been 
in  the  other  rooms. 

We  went  out  through  the  Gallery  of  Inscriptions, 
which  is  one  of  the  solemn  places.  On  the  left  hand 
the  tombstones  of  the  early  Christians,  on  the  right 
those  of  their  enemies.  It  is  touching  to  read  these 
records  of  the  first  triumphs  of  Christianity's  first  faith 
over  the  grave.  "  A  sweet  soul,  who  sleeps  in  peace," 
is  an  inscription  constantly  recurring.  Among  the  Pa- 
gan inscriptions  are  no  such  comforting  words;  only 
grief  and  gloom. 

In  the  court-yard  the  Pope's  gay  guards  were  flaunt- 
ing up  and  down  like  enchanted  tiger-lilies,  making  ready 
for  his  Holiness  to  take  such  modest  airing  in  a  close 
red  coach  as  befits  the  representative  of  Jesus  Christ ; 
the  beggars  buzzed  up  round  our  ears ;  the  scorching 
sirocco  blew  in  our  faces;  and  in  a  few  moments  we 
had  bridged  the  gap  of  twenty  centuries,  and  taken  up 
again  our  own  little  thread  of  to-day. 


ALBANO   DAYS. 

THERE  are  but  seven  in  a  week.  That  is  their  only 
fault.  How  clever  those  gentlemanly  fellows, 
Pompey  and  Domitian,  were,  to  put  their  villas  on  this 
hill ;  and  as  for  the  cruelties  said  to  have  been  commit- 
ted in  Domitian's  amphitheatre,  a  few  rods  from  our 
hotel,  we  have  decided  that  there  is  some  mistake  about 
that.  In  Rome  one  can  believe  in  all  tales  of  old  tor- 
tures —  and  new  ones  too,  for  that  matter.  Even  when 
the  larks  sing  loudest  in  the  Cohseum  the  stones  cry  out 
louder;  the  air  reeks  with  sirocco  vapors,  and  seems 
not  yet  purged  from  the  odor  of  blood.  But  in  the 
pure,  sun-flooded  air  of  this  hill,  which  must  always 
have  been  full  of  marvellous  delights,  it  is  impossible  to 
believe  that  bad  men  ever  did  bad  deeds.  Whatever 
they  might  have  been  in  Rome,  they  were  virtuous  as 
soon  as  they  got  here.  I  cannot  fancy  Domitian's  ever 
doing  anything  worse  than  having  a  few  larks  killed  for 
supper ;  and  I  am  sure  he  spent  most  of  his  afternoons 
lying  on  purple  thyme  on  the  shores  of  the  Alban 
Lake  (as  we  lay  yesterday),  perhaps  slyly  reading  the 
good  sayings  of  the  poor  Epictetus  whom  he  had  ban- 
ished. We  read  yesterday  what  Epictetus  said  '•  con- 
cerning those  who  seek  preferment  in  Rome  " ;  and,  as 
we  looked  over  at  the  hot,  smoky  domes  and  spires,  it 
seemed  hard  to  believe  that  any  one  going  thither,  even 
if  he  were  "  met  by  a  billet  from  Caesar,"  could  choot^e 
to  stay. 

Albano  is  1,250  feet  above  the  sea,  says  Murray.  That 
may  be  true,  say  we ;  but  we  know  it  is  much  more 
than  that  above  Rome.     Have  we  not  been  looking 


112  ALB ANO  DAYS. 

longingly  at  it  for  months,  set  high  on  the  side  of  the 
Alban  Hills?  From  every  height  in  Rome  to  which 
we  wearily  climbed  we  saw  it,  triumphant  with  banners 
of  clouds,  and  crowned  with  green  of  forests,  saying  as 
plainly  as  tower  could  say,  "  Come  up  here,  and  I  will 
do  you  good."  When  the  watchmen  in  the  old  Sara- 
cen towers  saw  the  pirate-ships  coming  over  the  Medi- 
teiTanean,  they  sounded  the  alarm,  and  all  the  people 
in  the  plains  fled  into  the  mountains  for  safety.  To-day 
the  towers  are  in  ruins,  and  no  corsairs  sail  from  Africa 
across  the  sea ;  but  the  sirocco,  a  more  deadly  foe,  comes 
in  their  stead,  hotter  and  hotter  with  each  day  of  May, 
and  wise  souls  escape  to  high  places. 

Of  all  those  within  easy  reach  of  Rome,  Albano  is 
best.  It  is  only  an  hour  off  by  the  cars.  And  even  at 
the  railroad  station  you  are  met  by  beauty  and  good 
cheer  —  a  garden  full  of  roses,  and  white  thorne,  and 
wall-flowers,  and  ranunculus;  and  a  station-master 
who,  if  he  treats  you  as  well  as  he  treated  us,  will 
give  you  a  big  bunch  of  all,  and  look  hurt  and  angry 
when  you  offer  to  pay  him.  From  this  garden  to  the 
village  of  Albano,  two  miles  and  a  half,  over  a  good 
road,  up,  up,  up  !  the  air  grows  purer  minute  by  min- 
ute; the  Campagna  behind  sinks  and  stretches  and 
fades,  and  becomes  only  another  sea,  purpler  and  more 
restless-looking  than  the  broad  band  of  the  Mediterra- 
nean into  which  it  melts.  On  each  side  are  vineyards, 
looking  now  like  miniature  military  encampments,  with 
play-guns  of  cane  stacked  by  fives  and  threes,  and  little 
soldiers  in  green  going  in  and  out  and  playing  leap-frog 
among  them,  so  fantastic  are  the  baby-vines  in  their  first 
creeping.  Olives,  gray  and  solemn,  sharing  none  of  the 
life  and  joy,  most  pathetic  of  trees.  The  first  man  who 
saw  an  olive-tree  must  have  known  that  there  had  been 
Gethsemane.  Never  else  could  such  pathos  have  been 
put  into  mere  color ;  they  could  never  have  been  so 
gray  before  that  night.  Still  up  and  up  I  It  is  a  long 
two  and  a  half  miles.     The  bells  tinkle  slowly  at  the 


ALBANO  DAYS. 


"3 


horse's  head.  The  driver's  neck  bends  suspiciously  to 
one  side ;  he  is  half  asleep.  You  would  not  be  sorry 
if  the  horse  and  he  dozed  off  together,  and  you  stood 
still  for  an  hour  to  look.  On  the  right  hand  is  a 
valley  garden,  an  old  lake-bed,  set  full  of  vines  and  fig- 
trees  and  fruit-trees  in  full  flower,  and  wheat,  and  all 
the  numberless  and  exquisite-leaved  "  greens "  which 
Italy  boils,  eats,  and  manages  to  grow  fat  on.  We  find 
them  beautiful  everywhere  but  on  the  dinner-table. 
High  on  the  crater-like  side  of  this  garden  is  the  tower 
of  Ariccia,  looking  like  a  gray  bird  which  had  just  lit 
on  its  way  up  to  Monte  Cavo.  Between  Ariccia  and 
Albano  is  a  sharp  ravine ;  and  the  sensible  Pius  IX., 
some  twenty  years  ago,  built  a  fine  stone  viaduct  across 
it,  toward  the  cost  of  which  we  pay  half  a  franc  each 
time  we  drive  over.  But  only  blind  men  could  grudge 
the  money.  From  every  point  it  is  a  most  beautiful 
feature  in  the  landscape,  with  its  three  tiers  of  arches ; 
and  from  its  top  you  look  down  two  hundred  feet  into 
the  valley  garden  on  one  side,  and  two  hundred  feet  in- 
to the  tops  of  a  forest  of  trees  on  the  other.  You  follow 
the  valley  garden  till  it  loses  itself  in  the  Campagna ; 
the  Campagna,  till  it  loses  itself  in  the  Mediterranean, 
which  glistens  in  the  sun  twelve  miles  off;  and  you 
hear  coming  up  from  the  forest  the  voices  of  thrushes 
and  nightingales  and  cuckoos  and  larks,  till  you  believe 
that  there  must  be  a  bird-fancier's  shop  in  one  of  the 
old  gray  houses  joining  the  bridge.  To  stand  on  this 
bridge  for  an  hour  is  to  see  Italian  country-life  in  drama. 
The  donkeys,  the  men,  and  the  women  of  Albano  and 
Ariccia  and  Gensano  act  their  little  parts,  and  are  gone. 
We  stayed  late  at  this  play  last  night.  The  wardrobes 
were  poor,  but  the  acting  was  nature  itself;  such  pan- 
tomime, such  chorus  1  Priests  in  black,  looking  always 
like  a  sort  of  ecclesiastical  crow,  such  silly  solemnity  in 
their  faces,  so  much  slow  flap  to  their  petticoats  and 
the  brims  of  their  hats ;  barefooted  monks,  rofled  up  in 
cloaks  of  faded  brown  —  they  also  have  their  similitude, 


114 


ALBANO  DAYS. 


and  look  as  the  olive-trees  might  if  they  gathered  their 
rusty  skirts  around  them  and  hobbled  out  for  a  walk ; 
workmen,  going  home  from  the  fields,  with  odd  hoes 
and  pickaxes  over  their  shoulders;  women,  with  the 
same  hoes  and  pickaxes,  going  home  from  the  same 
work  in  the  same  fields,  and  carrying  also,  firm-set  on 
their  heads,  bundles,  loads  of  wood,  httle  wine-barrels 
or  water-jars,  or  anything  else  which  it  can  happen  to 
an  Albanese  woman  to  need  to  carry.  No  one  gives 
herself  any  more  trouble  about  her  barrel,  or  jar,  or  load 
of  wood,  than  if  it  were  a  second  head,  which  she  had 
worn  all  her  life.  They  talked  and  laughed  as  if  it 
were  morning  instead  of  night.  They  were  not  tired. 
Watch  them  at  what  they  call  work,  and  you  will  see 
why.  As  the  sun  sank  lower  the  crowd  of  laborers 
thinned ;  the  farmers,  one  degree  better  off,  came  rid- 
ing on  donkeys.  Two  men  and  a  boy  on  one  donkey ; 
four  large  bundles  of  wood  and  one  woman  on  one 
donkey  ;  four  large  casks  of  wine,  a  bundle  of  hay,  two 
chairs,  some  iron  utensils,  and  two  small  children  on 
one  donkey.  0  the  comic  tragedy  of  donkey !  the 
hopeless  arch  of  their  eyebrows,  the  abjectness  of  their 
tails,  and  the  vicious  twist  of  their  ankles  !  Nobody 
can  watch  them  long  without  becoming  wretched. 
Israelites,  coolies,  and  negroes,  —  all  they  have  died  of 
misfortunes ;  but  the  donkey  is  the  Wandering  Jew  of 
misery  among  animals,  and  Italy,  I  think,  must  be  his 
Ghetto. 

Before  we  reached  the  hotel  we  had  come  upon  an- 
other drama,  in  the  street,  —  a  lottery  drawing ;  prize, 
two  hens.  If  it  had  been  two  thousand  scudi,  there  could 
not  have  been  much  more  excitement.  Fifty  chances 
had  been  sold.  The  street  held  its  breath,  while  a  store- 
keeper dropped  the  counters  one  by  one  into  a  box, 
held  by  a  rosy  boy,  mischievous  enough,  but  too  young 
to  cheat.  Then  the  boy  put  in  his  little  brown  fingers, 
and  drew  out  one :  "  Thirty  !  "  Then  the  street  broke 
out  into  chatter  for  an  instant,  guessing  and  betting 


ALBANO  DAYS. 


"5 


what  would  come  next ;  then  held  its  breath  stiller 
than  ever.  "  Thirty-one !  "  "  Thirty-one !  "  No  "  Thirty- 
one  "  answered.  "  Thirty-one  "  was  sick  at  home,  or 
had  married  a  wife,  and  could  not  come ;  and  the  street 
grudged  him  his  two  hens  all  the  more  that  he  was  not 
on  hand  to  carry  them  off.  The  hens  screamed  and 
scuffled ;  the  storekeeper  crammed  them  back  into  a 
coop  on  his  window ;  and  the  street  went  back  to  its 
work,  i.  e.  to  sitting  about,  smoking,  and  knitting,  and 
selling  saddles  and  fish  and  shoes  and  salad  and  hand- 
kerchiefs and  donkeys  and  calico  and  wine  all  along 
its  doorsteps,  never  by  any  chance  being  under  roof,  so 
long  as  there  is  daylight. 

We  took  our  sunsetting  at  the  Villa  Doria.  It  is  a 
princely  thing  of  the  rich  Eomans  to  throw  their  beau- 
tiful villas  open  to  the  public.  Could  it  be  safely  done 
in  America  ?  I  fear  our  people  are  not  gentle  enough, 
and  have  too  much  money  to  spend  on  cake  and  pea- 
nuts. Here  no  harm  comes  of  it.  In  the  Villa  Doria 
are  ilex-trees  which  are  a  kingdom  in  themselves.  It 
would  not  seem  unnatural  to  make  obeisance  to  them. 
They  stand  in  groups,  making  long  vistas,  high  arches, 
locking  and  interlocking  their  branches,  their  trunks 
looking  as  old  as  the  masses  of  ruins  among  them ;  and 
the  ruins  belonged  to  Pompey's  walls.  At  sunset  the 
sun  slants  under  and  through  these  ilexes ;  the  purple 
and  wine-colored  bands  of  the  Campagna  and  sky  be- 
yond seem  to  narrow  closer  and  closer  round  the  hill, 
and  flocks  of  birds  wheel  and  sing.  In  the  Villa  Bar- 
berini,  higher  up,  is  a  great  field  of  stone-pines,  stately 
as  a  council  of  gods.  No  wonder  that  Theodore  Par- 
ker, when  he  saw  a  stone-pine,  asked  that  one  be  set 
on  his  grave.  No  tree  grows  which  has  such  bearing 
of  a  solemn  purpose.  Such  morning  and  evening  as 
this  make  a  day  in  Albano.  Words  give  but  glimpse 
and  no  color.  For  other  days  there  are  other  villas, 
and  fields,  and  ruins,  tombs  of  Pompey  and  of  Aruns, 
Lake  Nemy  and  its  village,  Gensano,  and  Marino,  and 


Il6  ALB  A  NO  DAYS. 

Rocca  di  Papa,  all  within  easy  reach  and  always  in 
sight.  There  are  four  lovely  winding  avenues  of  trees, 
called  Gallerie,  where  you  drive  for  miles  under  arches 
of  gray  ilex  as  grand  as  stone,  and  where  the  oldest 
trees  are  propped  by  pillars  to  save  their  strength  and 
keep  them  alive.  There  is  Monte  Cavo,  the  highest  of 
the  Alban  Hills,  one  thousand  feet  above  Albano,  where 
there  used  to  be  a  temple,  and  Julius  Csesar  went  up  to 
be  crowned  one  day.  To  think  that  an  English  cardi- 
nal dared  to  pull  down  the  ruined  temple,  and  build  a 
convent  and  church  in  its  stead ! 

Some  of  the  roads  are  very  smooth  and  good,  others 
are  rough  and  narrow.  For  these  you  must  take  don- 
keys, and  go  perhaps  two  miles  an  hour ;  but,  going  so 
slowly,  you  will  have  great  reward  in  learning  the  faces 
of  the  wayside  flowers  and  getting  into  fellowship  with 
the  lizards.  Fifty  different  kinds  of  flowers  I  counted 
in  one  afternoon,  all  growing  wild  by  the  road ;  and  the 
other  day,  on  the  road  to  Marino,  I  made  acquaintance 
with  two  lizards,  who  were  finer  than  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory,  and  had  a  villa  with  a  better  view  than  the 
Barberini. 


A   SUNDAY   MORNING  IN  VENICE. 

"QCOTCH  PRESBYTERIAN  CHURCH!"  There 
lO  were  the  words,  in  white  letters  on  a  blue 
ground.  We  rubbed  our  eyes  and  sprang  up  in  our 
gondola.  Yes,  we  were  in  a  gondola,  and  we  were  on 
the  Grand  Canal  in  Venice.  But  there  were  the 
words,  and  no  mistake ;  white  on  blue,  so  plain  that 
he  who  rowed  might  read.  "  Scotch  Presbyterian 
Church ! "  We  had  seen,  unmoved,  the  palaces  of 
Doges,  Titians,  Marco  Polos,  Lord  Byrons,  and  Dic- 
tator Ruskins ;  we  had  looked  the  Lion  of  St.  Marks 
in  the  eye,  and  the  statue  of  St.  Theodore  out  of  coun- 
tenance ;  but  for  this  we  were  not  prepared.  A  Pres- 
byterian meeting-house  on  the  G-rand  Canal !  The 
resolute  little  sign  held  our  eyes  with  a  fascination 
amounting  almost  to  an  uncanny  spell ;  the  distant 
hand-organ  seemed  droning  off  into  a  sleepy  Dundee ; 
our  good  Luigi's  features  seemed  changing  into  some- 
thing more  stern  than  their  wont ;  the  measured  sweep 
of  his  oar  took  on  a  solemn  significance ;  and  when 
the  legless  beggar  who  haunts  the  Grand  Canal  rowed 
up  by  our  side,  we  should  not  have  been  surprised  if, 
instead  of  his  usual  whine  of  "  qualche  cosa,"  he  had 
struck  up  "Life  is  the  time  to  serve  the  Lord." 
"  Scotch  Presbyterian  Church  !  "  The  letters  defied 
perspective,  and  looked  bigger  and  bigger  as  we  glided 
away. 

"  Luigi,  is  there  really  a  church  there-?  " 

"  0  yes,  yes,  Signora  ;  every  Sunday." 

"  Very  well.     Next  Sunday  we  will  go  to  it." 

Luigi  looked  glad.     The  Sunday  before,  when  we 


Ii8    A   SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  VENICE. 

went  out  to  take  our  evening  row,  he  asked  with  timid 
interest  if  we  had  been  to  mass  in  the  morning.  On 
hearing  that  we  had  not,  his  face  clouded ;  and  I  think 
that  after  that  his  gentle  soul  had  been  troubled  by 
misgivings  as  to  our  future.  But  now  he  was  reassured. 
If  we  could  not  be  good  Catholics,  it  was  something 
that  we  had  a  worship  of  our  own.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
we  should  not  be  left  forever  in  purgatory.  There  was 
real  liberality  in  the  approbation,  softened  perhaps  by 
pity,  with  which  he  smiled  on  us,  as  we  stepped  out  of 
our  gondola  at  the  picturesque  low  stone  door,  over 
which  was  the  sign  "  Scotch  Presbyterian  Church." 

We  were  too  early  by  an  hour.  Even  Scotch  Pres- 
byterianism  had  so  far  accommodated  itself  to  the  air 
of  Venice  as  to  postpone  the  hour  of  morning  service 
till  half  past  eleven.  The  door  was  shut.  What  should 
we  do  ?  By  way  of  making  the  antithesis  of  things 
sharper  yet,  we  might  hear  a  Roman  Catholic  mass 
first. 

"Luigi,  we  will  go  to  St.  Mark's."  Luigi  looked 
gladder  still.  Surely  his  "  forestiere "  were  in  the 
right  path  to-day.  His  oar  dipped  fast,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  we  had  slipped  into  the  little  sombre  canal 
which  creeps  under  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  and  were 
walking  off,  in  the  sunshine  of  Luigi's  patronizing 
smile,  through  the  court-yard  of  the  Doge's  Palace,  into 
the  great  solemn  shadows  of  St.  Mark's.  It  was 
crowded,  —  the  first  time  I  had  seen  it  so ;  but  even 
the  stir  and  hum  of  so  many  living  men  and  women 
did  not  seem  to  give  it  a  breath  of  the  atmosphere  of 
to-day.  Each  man  seemed,  as  soon  as  he  entered  and 
knelt  down,  to  be  transformed,  as  by  a  magician's 
touch,  into  an  enchanted  figure  which  had  been  pray- 
ing there  for  centuries.  The  priests  moved  to  and  fro  ; 
the  incense  films  rose,  and  floated,  and  faded ;  invisible 
bells  tinkled  sharply.  It  was  only  a  common,  low  mass, 
but  it  seemed  like  the  worship  of  some  old  spell-bound 
race  doomed  to  kneel,  and  pray,  and  swing  censers  till 


A   SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  VENICE. 


119 


Bome  predestined  deliverer  should  come,  possibly  the^ 
next  hour,  possibly  not  for  a  thousand  years,  to  set 
them  free.  Perhaps  it  is  strange  that  the  worship  of 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  should  ever  seem  like 
anything  less  than  this.  Surely  her  milhons  are  spell- 
bound, waiting  the  deliverer  who  will  one  day  come. 
Involuntarily  I  looked  up  at  the  giant  apostles  and 
saints  frescoed  in  blue  and  crimson  and  gold  high  over- 
head ;  and  I  half  thought  that  they  stirred,  as  if  the 
hour  was  near.  No ;  it  was  only  a  misty  sunbeam 
stealing  around  pillar  after  pillar,  and  lighting  up  their 
stone  faces  with  quivering  colors  of  life.  After  the 
mass  was  over,  a  fair,  gentle-faced  priest  pattered  out 
from  some  dark  recess  behind  the  high  altar,  and, 
standing  in  front  of  the  railing,  read  bans  of  matrimony 
for  many  men  and  women. 

They  were  really  alive  then,  and  they  married  and 
were  given  in  marriage,  these  weird  Venetians  who 
made  up  the  spectacle  at  which  I  had  been  looking.  I 
saw  also  that  a  young  girl  nudged  her  neighbor  and 
smiled  scornfully  as  one  name  was  read.  Ah,  they 
had  also  envies  and  scandals !  From  these,  too,  must 
come  a  deliverer.  The  incense  will  not  help  them,  nor 
the  naming  of  saints,  nor  the  keeping  of  days;  only 
the  Lord  himself  from  heaven.  As  I  walked  slowly 
out  among  the  kneeling  figures,  I  thought  of  Paul  in 
the  Athenian  temples,  and  what  glorious  thrills  must 
have  warmed  his  blood  when  he  called  out  his  watch- 
word of  Christ  in  the  midst  of  their  altars. 

When  we  again  reached  the  room  of  the  "  Scotch 
Presbyterian  Church"  the  minister  was  reading  the 
first  hymn.  The  room  was  small,  with  three  chintz- 
curtained  windows  opening  into  a  green  and  sunny 
garden.  I  much  suspect  the  desk  of  having  been  only 
a  temporary  arrangement  of  chairs  and  tables,  Avith 
a  dark  tapestry  flung  over  them.  Every  seat  was 
filled  ;  there  were,  perhaps,  forty  men  and  women, 
earnest-looking,  plain  people,  English  and  Americans. 


I20    A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  VENICE. 

We  sat  down  just  outside,  in  a  small  anteroom,  of 
which  one  door  opened  wide  into  the  sunny  garden 
and  the  other  on  the  Grand  Canal.  In  the  garden,  on 
my  right,  birds  sang  riotously ;  on  the  canal  I  could 
see  gondolas  and  great  black  barges  constantly  going 
up  and  down.  Before  me  stood  the  young  minister, 
reading,  with  his  odd  Scotch  accent,  that  good  verse  of 
the  Bible,  which  says  that  we  must  bear  one  another's 
burdens.  As  he  read  it,  it  sounded  "  Bayre  ye  one 
anoother's  buddens  " ;  but  the  doctrine  was  none  the 
worse  for  the  brogue.  Just  as  I  had  fairly  delivered 
myself  up  to  the  enjoyment  of  the  whole  scene,  I  Avas 
touched  on  the  shoulder,  and  an  elderly  man,  having 
somewhat  the  bearing  of  a  Western  congressman, 
said :  "  Ma'am,  are  these  the  American  services  ?  " 

There  was  an  emphasis  on  the  word  "  American " 
which  suggested  that  he  had  the  Fourth  of  July  — 
stars,  stripes,  fireworks,  eagle,  and  all  —  in  his  pock- 
ets. I  strangled  a  wicked  impulse  to  reply,  even  under 
the  minister's  very  face,  that  I  did  not  know  what 
"American  services"  were,  and  answered:  "I  only 
know  the  sign  above  the  door  is  Scotch  Presbyterian 
Church." 

In  a  loud,  resentful  whisper  he  rejoined  :  "  I  was  in- 
formed that  the  American  services  were  held  at  the 
house  of  the  American  Consul."  All  this  time  his 
family  stood  waiting  in  the  rear  —  mother,  two  young 
misses,  a  boy  fifteen,  and  a  dear,  sturdy  little  baby-boy, 
possibly  three  years  old.  I  replied  again,  as  gravely  as 
I  could  :  "  There  is  no  American  Consul  in  Venice  at 
present.  The  English  Church  service  is  held  in  the 
house  of  the  English  clergyman."  He  turned  away 
and  strode  out,  the  family  procession  following.  No 
worshipping  under  foreign  flags  would  this  patriotic 
family  do.  The  American  service  or  none!  The 
earnest  young  minister  went  on  with  liis  Bible-reading, 
an'd  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  interruption,  when  lo ! 
a  stir  at  the  door,  and  there  they  were  again,  —  the 


A  SI/ATI) Ay  MORNING  IN  VENICE.     121 

discomfited  patriots  returning  crestfallen,  after  I  know 
not  how  much  research  and  consultation,  —  ready  at 
last  to  make  the  best  of  Scotch  "  services,"  since 
American  could  not  be  found. 

The  mother  had,  I  thought,  a  sweet  and  gentle  face; 
and,  as  she  took  the  baby  in  her  lap,  I  prepared  myself 
for  an  hour  of  delight  in  watching  them.  Alas,  what 
a  mistaken  hope !  The  baby  was  restless.  Who  would 
not  be,  for  that  matter,  with  the  tempting  garden  and 
singing-birds  on  one  hand,  and  the  fairy  spectacle  of 
the  boats  and  the  water  on  the  other  ?  Moreover,  the 
mercury  stood  at  eighty  degrees,  or  higher :  only  by 
help  of  much  fanning  did  the  grown-up  people  keep 
still.  What  was  a  baby  to  do  ?  Of  course  he  tried  to 
slip  down  and  run  out ;  and  of  course,  before  long,  he 
began  to  fret  and  whimper.  At  last  she  rose,  took  him 
by  the  hand,  and  walked  into  the  garden.  My  heart 
gave  a  bound  of  joy.  "  0,"  thought  I,  "  kind,  sensi- 
ble mother !  She  will  sit  in  the  garden  with  him,  and 
let  him  play." 

"0  mamma!  me  be  good,  me  be  good!"  came 
down  the  garden-alley  in  those  unmistakable  tones  of 
terror  which  are  never  heard  from  the  lips  of  any 
children  except  those  whose  nerves  have  had  the 
shock  and  the  pain  of  blows.  All  the  sunlight  seemed  in 
that  instant  to  die  out  of  the  fair  green  place.  But  I 
said  to  myself,  "  Poor  darling.  He  will  escape  one 
whipping  at  least.  She  will  never  dare  to  whip  him 
here."  Mistaken  again.  In  less  than  a  minute  there 
came  from  the  distance  that  sharp,  quick  scream  which 
means  but  one  thing ;  once,  twice,  three  times,  —  then 
all  was  still.  In  a  few  minutes  more  they  returned  ; 
the  poor  baby  subdued  into  a  sort  of  hysterical  silence, 
worse  to  see  than  violent  crying,  his  cheeks  crimson, 
and  his  eyes  full  of  tears.  I  buried  my  face  in  my 
hands,  and  tried  to  take  comfort  in  remembering  how 
many  friendly  diseases  there  are  which  carry  little 
children  to  heaven.  The  words  of  the  sermon 
6 


122    A  SUNDAY  MORNING  IN  VENICE. 

sounded  to  me  like  inarticulate  murmur;  now  and 
then  came  the  refrain,  "  Bear  ye  one  another's  bur- 
dens." How  I  wished  I  could  bear  that  baby's !  For 
perhaps  one  half-hour  he  sat  perfectly  still ;  but,  at  the 
age  of  three,  memory  is  short  and  animal  life  is  strong. 
He  had  a  splendid  physique,  full  of  nervous  overflow  ; 
it  was  simply  a  physical  impossibility  for  him  to  sit 
still  long.  He  began  again  to  make  struggles  and  im- 
patient sounds.  Again  she  took  him  up,  this  time 
with  impatience  and  irritation  in  her  manner,  and  led 
him  into  the  sunny  garden.  Louder  and  more  pite- 
ous came  the  cry,  "  0  mamma !  me  be  good,  me  be 
good !  "  and  the  poor,  sturdy  Httle  legs  held  back  with 
all  their  force  as  she  dragged  him  down  the  walk.  I 
could  hear  no  more.  I  fled  through  the  opposite  door, 
and  sprang  into  our  gondola  so  quickly  that  Luigi  came 
running  up  with  alarm  and  inquiry  on  his  rugged  face. 
In  my  excitement  and  indignation  I  found  even  Italian 
language  enough  to  tell  him  what  had  driven  me  from 
the  church.  "  Ah,  it  was  very  terrible.  No  wonder 
the  signora  could  not  bear  it.  Now  he  (Luigi)  had 
four  children,  one  little  girl  only  a  year  old ;  and 
never,  no,  never,  did  he  strike  them.  He  always  talked 
with  them ;  never  a  blow,  —  0  no  I  " 

Ah,  polite  and  courteous  Luigi  I  Six  months'  obser- 
vation of  the  ways  of  Italian  fathers  and  mothers 
made  it  hard  for  me  to  believe  that  his  children  led 
lives  of  such  exceptional  peace.  The  Italians  never 
entirely  "  grow  up  "  themselves ;  and  they  are  with 
their  children  much  as  children  are  with  kittens  —  af- 
fectionate and  cruel  by  turns.  But  it  was  at  that  mo- 
ment an  unspeakable  comfort  to  me  to  hear  Luigi  tell 
his  sympathizing  lie. 

When  the  services  were  ended,  I  watched  with 
morbid  eagerness  to  see  the  baby  once  more.  As  the 
gondola  of  the  patriotic  family  rowed  away,  I  saw  the 
poor  little  fellow's  flushed  face  lying,  weary  and  list- 
less, on  his  fatlier's  shoulder.     All  day  it  haunted  me. 


A  SONDA  Y  MORNING  IN  VENICE. 


123 


I  could  not  shake  off  the  fear,  so  well  do  I  know  that 
type  of  parent,  that  he  had,  after  he  reached  the  hotel, 
a  third  whipping,  —  such  a  one  as  is  called  in  fiendish 
satire  "a  good  whipping."  Poor  baby!  Three  whip- 
pings and  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  service  in  one  fore- 
noon ;  and  he  is  only  three  years  old,  and  has  at  least 
eight  or  nine  years  more  to  live  under  the  lash.  Poor 
baby! 

Yenick,  Italt,  Juno  L 


THE   CONVENT   OF   SAN   LAZZARO    IN 

VENICE. 

THE  longer  one  stays  in  Venice  the  more  of  a 
magnet  the  Lido  becomes,  and  the  surer  one  is  to 
row  thither  daily.  Its  low  line  looks  one  minute  like 
a  mirage,  the  next  like  firm  and  pleasant  land;  one 
day  it  is  gone,  and  the  next  morning  back  in  its  place 
again ;  and  all  the  while  you  know  that,  shifting  and 
shadowy  as  it  seems,  it  is  really  the  one  solid  bit  of 
genuine  earth  which  Venice  owns  —  her  life-preserver, 
so  to  speak,  without  which  she  would  not  keep  her 
head  above  water  through  a  single  storm.  The  Adri- 
atic pounds  away  at  the  outer  edge  of  it,  macadamizing 
the  beach  in  pink  and  white  with  broken  shells,  but  it 
gains  no  ground.  The  quieter  sea  on  the  inner  side 
is  at  work  just  as  industriously,  engineering  for  the 
harbor  defence,  sifting  and  piling  the  sand  which  hidden 
currents  bring,  night  and  day,  from  the  feet  of  the 
Alps.  They  come  so  overloaded  that  they  spill  by  the 
way ;  and,  in  consequence,  there  is  no  straight  road  to 
any  island  in  all  the  Lagoons.  Suddenly,  without  any 
warning,  you  find  yourself  running  aground  on  sand- 
banks, and  have  to  row  many  an  extra  mile  to  get 
round  them ;  and,  what  is  more  surprising  still,  at  sun- 
set are  to  be  seen  men  walking  about  in  all  directions, 
apparently  on  the  water.  There  is  no  miracle  in  it, 
however.  These  Peters  sink  only  half-way  to  their 
knees ;  and  are  buoyed  up  by  no  greater  faith  than  that 
they  will  on  the  morrow  sell  at  a  good  price,  to  Vene- 
tian fishermen,  the  poor  sidling  crabs  which  they  are 
scooping  up  by  handfuls  on  the  sand-banks. 


THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO. 


125 


But  when  one  sails  Lido-ward,  no  marvels  of  men 
walking  on  water,  no  hindrance  of  unexpected  mud 
countries  to  be  coasted,  no  glories  of  color  in  the  sky, 
—  no,  not  even  when  a  day  is  setting,  —  can  long  with- 
hold his  eyes  from  the  Convent  of  San  Lazzaro.  Love- 
liest of  all  lovely  islands  in  the  Lagoons,  it  seems,  in 
some  lights,  to  be  floating,  and  rising,  and  sinking  on 
the  smooth  water,  like  a  great  red  lily,  with  gray  bat- 
tlement calyx  folding  about  it,  and  a  fringe  of  green 
beneath.  Then  one  stray  petal  flutters  off  in  the  wind ; 
that  is  the  fiery  flag  of  the  Sublime  Porte,  with  its 
pale  waning  crescent.  The  dwellers  on  San  Lazzaro  are 
subjects  of  the  Sultan.  Then  a  soft  bell-note  swings 
out  from  the  slender  bell-tower  on  the  left ;  it  is  the 
hour  for  vespers.  The  dwellers  on  San  Lazzaro  say 
prayers  after  the  fashion  of  the  Latins. 

But  neither  the  Sultan's  yoke  nor  the  rule  of  the 
Latin  Church  casts  any  shadow  of  burden  or  weariness 
over  the  faces  of  the  monks  of  San  Lazzaro.  S\ich 
peaceful  contentedness  I  have  never  seen,  except  in  a 
child's  eyes,  as  beamed  in  the  smile  of  the  brother 
who  welcomed  us,  and  introduced  us  to  the  Egyptian 
mummy  who  (should  one  say  who,  or  which,  of  a 
mummy  ?)  occupies  the  place  of  state  in  one  of  the 
three  fine  library-rooms  which  are  shown  to  strangers. 
He  took  us  a  little  by  surprise,  —  the  mummy.  We  had 
not  looked  for  him  in  an  Armenian  convent.  But, 
with  the  exception  of  his  features,  he  was  handsome ; 
and  the  bead  coverlid  in  which  he  was  tucked  up,  and 
the  painted  box  he  journeyed  in,  were  very  fine.  One 
could  not  help  wondering,  in  looking  at  him,  what  his 
next  transition  would  be,  and  if  he  did  not  get  out  of 
his  glass  case  at  night  and  study  Armenian  by  star- 
light. Nowhere  could  he  do  it  better  than  in  these 
libraries,  whose  windows  look  out  over  rose  and  fig 
trees  to  the  sea,  and  whose  shelves  are  loaded  with  the 
rarest  Armenian  manuscripts. 

Some  of  the  illuminated  copies  of  the  Bible  are  very 


126     THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO. 

rare  and  beautiful.  One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  all, 
though  not  the  oldest,  was  written  and  illuminated  by 
one  man,  probably  the  work  of  his  whole  lifetime ;  but 
his  name  is  not  even  known.  Another  one,  very  old 
and  rare,  once  belonged  to  an  Armenian  queen ;  and 
the  monk  showed  to  us  with  great  reverence  a  para- 
graph in  it  which  was  written  by  her  own  hand.  They 
have  their  share  of  devotion  to  royalty,  even  these 
simple-hearted  monks;  for  on  the  table  in  the  first 
library-room,  where  the  visitors  are  requested  to  write 
their  names,  we  found  a  separate  book  for  the  names 
of  kings  and  queens  and  nobilities.  In  it  we  saw  the 
somewhat  cramped  signatures  of  poor  Maximilian  and 
Carlotta.  Lord  Byron's  autograph  occupied  a  still  more 
distinguished  place,  being  framed  by  itself  and  hung 
in  the  window.  It  was  written  both  in  English  and  in 
Armenian ;  so  he  made  that  much  progress  during  the 
months  that  he  lived  and  studied  at  San  Lazzaro.  The 
table  at  which  he  wrote  is  shown,  and  the  monks  ap- 
pear to  regard  his  having  lived  with  them  as  an  honor. 
This  struck  us  as  a  singular  inversion  of  the  true  order 
of  things ;  Lord  Byron  seeming  to  us  the  person  hon- 
ored by  the  arrangement. 

We  saw  the  refectory  and  the  kitchen,  both  as  spot- 
lessly neat  as  if  they  belonged  to  an  establishment  of 
Shakers.  A  huge  black  cat  in  the  kitchen  had  become 
so  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  monkish  view  of  wo- 
men that  he  sputtered  savagely  at  sight  of  our  party. 
"Poor  Pussy,"  in  the  gentlest  of  feminine  voices,  pro- 
duced no  effect  on  him,  except  to  set  his  back  still 
higher  in  the  air. 

In  the  printing-room  six  lay-brothers  were  busily  at 
work  running  off  the  sheets  of  a  translation  of  ^schy- 
lus  into  Armenian.  In  the  cool  stone  stables  twenty- 
seven  Swiss  cows  were  eating  their  fresh  clover,  mowed 
that  morning  on  the  Lido.  In  the  mouth  of  a  great 
artesian  well,  under  a  thatched  straw  roof,  were  floating 
twelve  pails  of  rich  cream  and  milk,  ready  to  be  sold 


THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO.     127 

that  evening  to  the  Hotel  Danielli,  in  Venice.  In  the 
pleasant,  airy  school-room,  eighteen  Armenian  boys 
were  studying  away,  —  and  hating  it,  I  suppose,  like 
boys  of  any  other  nation.  In  chambers  here  and  there, 
which  we  might  not  see,  were  learned  fathers,  studying, 
translating,  writing,  and  planning,  all  for  the  instruction 
of  the  Armenian  people.  In  one  chamber,  most  sacred 
of  al],  of  which  our  guide  spoke  in  lowered  tones,  was 
an  old  lay-brother,  one  hundred  and  two  years  old,  — 
not  dying,  but  yet  not  quite  hving ;  too  feeble  to  walk ; 
waiting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Celestial  Mountains, 
and  listening  for  the  feet  of  the  messenger  with  the 
token.  In  the  walled  gardens  were  all  manner  of 
pleasant  things  growing,  —  figs  and  beans,  pomegran- 
ates and  artichokes,  peas,  wheat,  and  maize,  and  olean- 
ders, roses,  lemons,  and  oranges.  Under  the  school- 
room windows  was  the  garden  of  the  pupils,  in  which 
each  boy  has  his  own  bed.  Grood  boys  have  flower- 
seeds  or  roots  given  them  as  rewards.  One  lucky 
fellow  had  twenty-one  kinds  of  pansy  in  his  garden. 

Round  aU  this  peaceful,  beautiful  Ufe  stretched  the 
stone-waUs,  —  not  like  walls,  but  sheltering  arms. 
Outside  the  soft  water  seemed  also  to  be  circling  and 
sheltering ;  and  no  sound,  unless  of  a  passing  oar,  in- 
terrupted the  quiet.  We  longed  to  stay  for  the  rest 
of  our  lives,  and  drink  cream,  and  translate  good  books 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Armenian  nation;  and  only 
wished  that  we  had  been  wicked  men  and  written 
poetry,  so  that  we  could  make  a  precedent  of  Lord 
Byron's  having  been  taken  to  board  there.  When  we 
said  as  much,  or  nearly  as  much,  to  the  gentle,  smiling 
brother  who  had  guided  us  over  the  convent,  he 
warmed  up,  in  kindly  response,  and  begged  me  to 
come  again  the  next  Sunday  and  attend  the  service  in 
the  chapel. 

This  we  did,  and  it  was  the  crowning  pleasure  of  our 
glimpses  of  San  Lazzaro.  In  our  first  visit  we  had 
been  mere  strangers,  to  whom  were  civilly  afforded  the 


128     THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO. 

ordinary  facilities  for  seeing  the  place.  In  our  second 
we  were  invited  guests,  and  now  tlie  gracious  courtesy 
of  Eastern  hospitality  surrounded  us.  While  we  were 
sitting  in  the  library,  and  looking  again  at  the  words 
which  the  Armenian  queen  had  written  thousands  of 
years-  ago,  there  entered  noiselessly  a  venerable  man, 
who  also  might  have  come,  it  seemed  to  me,  from  quite 
as  far  back  as  her  day,  and  who  brought  in  his  hands 
such  refreshments  as,  I  make  no  doubt,  she  set  before 
strangers  in  her  court;  rose-leaves  steeped  in  syrup 
till  the  syrup  had  become  rose  and  the  rose  was  trans- 
parent as  syrup,  of  this  one  teaspoonful  for  each  guest ; 
the  teaspoons  resting  on  tiny  glass  plates,  which  took 
a  soft,  red  tint  from  the  pulpy  rose-leaves.  In  the 
centre  of  the  tray,  a  dish  of  sweets  for  which  I  have  no 
name;  small  square  cakes,  which  might  have  been 
honey  arrested  and  made  solid  by  some  magic  means, 
and  almond  meats  set  thick  in  the  luscious  juice.  This 
was  all,  except  glasses  of  cool-filtered  rain-water,  al- 
most as  great  a  rarity  as  the  magic  honey-cakes  and 
the  rose-leaf  syrup.  "Oh!  where  were  these  delicious 
sweets  made?"  said  we.  "By  Armenian  ladies  in 
Constantinople.  They  send  them  to  us  every  year," 
repHed  the  monk.  "  And  you,  what  do  you  send  to 
them  in  turn  ? "  said  I,  —  "  figs  and  pomegranates 
from  your  garden  ?  "  "  O  no ;  nothing  but  letters," 
laughed  the  monk,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  which 
could  not  have  been  as  worldly  wise  and  cynical  as  it 
looked. 

The  Armenian  liturgy  is  one  of  the  most  solemn  in 
the  world.  We  had  read  carefully  the  English  transla- 
tion of  it,  so  that  we  were  not  wholly  at  loss  in  listen- 
ing to  the  sonorous  ring  of  it  in  the  Armenian  tongue. 
The  boys  chanted  with  sharp  inflections  and  unusual 
intervals,  which  gave  to  the  whole  a  wild  and  not 
unmusical  cadence.  But  it  was  impossible  not  to  be 
diverted  from  the  service  by  the  faces  of  the  brothers. 
Without  an  exception,  they  were  at  once  scholarly  and 


THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO. 


129 


childlike,  —  rare  faces,  which  one  would  note  and  ad- 
mire and  trust  anywhere,  the  very  realization  of  the 
apostolic  injunction  to  be  wise  as  serpents  and  harm- 
less as  doves. 

After  the  services  were  ended,  we  went  into  the 
little  bookstore  room,  and  looked  over  the  specimens 
of  their  printing,  and  translation,  and  photography. 
They  have  done  the  Emperor  Napoleon  the  honor  to 
translate  his  history  of  Caesar.  By  its  side  lay  a  trans- 
lation of  Paradise  Lost,  handsomely  bound,  and  dedi- 
cated to  Queen  Victoria.  We  bought  several  pam- 
phlets :  one  a  brief  history  of  their  society,  from  which  I 
suppose  I  ought  to  have  half  filled  my  letter,  and  told 
all  about  its  being  founded  in  Constantinople,  in  1700, 
by  Mechitar,  a  learned  Armenian ;  and  thence  moved 
to  Modon,  in  the  Morea,  in  1702 ;  then  broken  up  by 
the  war  between  the  Venetians  and  Turks  in  1715,  and 
moved  to  the  island  of  San  Lazzaro  in  1717,  where  it 
has  been  thriving  and  prospering  ever  since,  and  is 
now  rich,  owning  lands  in  Padua  and  Eome,  and  bank- 
stock  in  Venice,  not  to  mention  the  twenty-seven 
Swiss  cows.  It  is  doing  a  great  work  in  the  gratuitous 
education  of  Armenian  youth,  the  translation  of  stan- 
dard books  into  the  Armenian  language,  and  the  distri- 
bution of  them  throughout  Asia.  I  bought  also  an 
odd  littlp  book,  a  collection  of  popular  Armenian  songs, 
translated  into  English,  from  which  I  copy  one.  We 
see  that  the  things  of  the  earth  speak  the  same  words 
to  poets  under  all  suns. 

THE  YOUNG  MAN  AND  THE  WATER. 

Down  from  yon  distant  mountain 

The  water  flows  through  the  village.    Ha, 

A  dark  boy  came  forth, 

And  washing  his  hands  and  face, 

Washing,  j'es,  washing, 

And  turning  to  the  water,  asked:  "  Ha, 

Water,  from  what  mountain  dost  thou  come, 

0  my  cool  and  sweet  water,  HaV  " 

6*  I 


13©     THE  CONVENT  OF  SAN  LAZZARO. 

"  I  came  from  that  mountain 

Where  the  old  and  the  new  snow  lie  one  on  the  other." 

"  Water,  to  what  river  dost  thou  go, 

0  my  cool  and  sweet  water,  HaV" 

"  I  go  to  that  river  • 

Where  the  bunches  of  violets  abound,  Hal " 

"  Water,  to  what  vineyard  dost  thou  go, 

0  my  cool  and  sweet  water,  HaV  " 

"  I  go  to  that  vineyard 

Where  the  vine-dresser  is  within,  Ha! " 

"  Water,  what  plant  dost  thou  water, 

0  my  cool  and  sweet  water,  HaV  " 

''  I  water  that  plant 

Whose  roots  give  food  to  the  lamb; 

The  roots  give  food  to  the  lamb. 

Where  there  are  the  apple-tree  and  the  anemone." 

"  Water,  to  what  garden  dost  thou  go, 

O  my  cool  and  sweet  water,  HaV  " 

"  I  go  into  that  garden 

Where  there  is  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale,  Hal " 

"  Water,  into  what  fountain  dost  thou  go, 

0  my  cool  and  sweet  little  water  V  " 
"  I  go  to  that  fountain 

Where  thy  lover  comes  and  drinks ; 

1  go  to  meet  her  and  kiss  her  chin. 
And  satiate  myself  with  her  love." 

Just  as  we  were  ready  to  leave,  our  friendly  host — ■ 
for  not  knowing  whose  name  we  shall  never  forgive 
ourselves  —  came  running  in  from  the  garden  with  a 
large  bouquet  of  roses,  and  verbenas,  and  orange  blos- 
soms, and  said,  in  his  pleasant  broken  English,  "  Again 
you  will  come?"  "Yes,"  I  said;  "again  I  will  come, 
if  there  be  a  next  summer." 


ENCYCLICALS   OF   A  TRAVELLER. 

Nice,  Monday,  November  23, 1868. 

DEAR  PEOPLE:  Nineteen  days  since  I  sailed 
away,  and  this  is  the  first  minute  when  I  could 
look  far  enough  ahead  to  venture  to  try  to  tell  what  I 
had  seen.  It  has  been  a  whirl  and  a  maze.  On  the 
whole  I  like  it,  though  I  would  rather  not  be  out  of 
breath.  But  that  I  can't  help  till  I  get  to  Rome ;  so 
if  my  letter  has  the  sound  of  one  who  has  just  run  up 
hill,  and  cannot  wait  a  moment  before  beginnmg  to  tell 
his  news,  you  will  be  patient,  and  put  m  your  own 
colons  and  commas  where  I  leave  mine  out,  which  will 
be  all  along. 

Of  the  voyage  you  don't  care  to  hear.  The  smooth 
ones  are  pretty  rough,  I  think,  and  the  rough  ones 
must  be  unspeakably  awful.  This  was  a  smooth  one, 
they  said,  and  also  they  said  that  I  was  not  at  all  sea- 
sick. I  suppose  they  must  know,  and  so  I  give  you 
their  version  of  it.  Every  day  we  sat  on  deck ;  the 
waves  were  high,  emerald  at  top,  and  broke  into  foam- 
falls  to  right  and  left;  the  flocks  of  gulls  followed  us 
all  the  way,  and  I  almost  found  out  the  secret  of  their 
flying,  I  watched  them  so  constantly.  We  ate  a  great 
deal  oftener  and  a  great  deal  more  at  each  time  than 
we  ought;  we  had  hot- water  jugs  at  our  feet  at  night; 
and  the  stewards  and  stewardesses  said  to  us  twice  a 
day  that  it  was  a  most  beautiful  voyage,  and  fine 
weather  as  "  'eart  could  wish " ;  and  so  we  came  to 
Liverpool.  I  did  not  get  the  storm  I  hoped  for,  and 
of  which  the  third  mate  said  to  me,  two  days  out, 
"  We  'U  border  one  hup  for  your  hespecial  be'oof,  mem." 


132 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER 


Now  that  it  is  over,  I  am  rather  sorry  I  was  not.  Ittshec* 
to  a  mast  in  a  gale. 

When  I  saw  the  mail  put  ashore  at  Queenstown,  it 
began  to  dawn  on  Tue  what  a  big  place  the  world  must 
be.  Eighty-seven  huge  bags  of  mail,  half  of  thenr. 
too  large  for  a  man  to  stagger  under ;  and  when  they 
were  piled  up  on  the  deck  of  the  tug,  they  made  a  small 
hill.     Even  httle  Belgium  had  three  big  bags. 

As  we  were  going  into  the  Liverpool  harbor,  we  met 
the  Russia  coming  out,  and  waved  our  handkerchiefs 
out  of  good-fellowship  to  anything  or  anybody  bound 
for  America.  In  London  I  found  out  that  Professor 
and  Mrs.  B.  had  sailed  in  the  Russia ;  so  if  I  had  only 
known,  my  signal  would  have  had  great  meaning. 

Liverpool  looked  very  old  and  musty,  as  if  it  had 
been  finished  centuries  ago  and  put  away :  solid  beyond 
anything  I  ever  saw ;  such  piers,  such  posts,  such 
foundations!  Great  Normandy  horses,  with  shaggy 
pantalettes  of  hair  aroun.l  their  hoofs,  seemed  to  be 
stalking  about  in  all  dii-ections,  drawing  tons  of  things 
on  drays,  with  wheels  too  broad  to  roll.  To  the 
Washington  Hotel  Ave  were  to  go  for  dinner.  Wash- 
ington himself,  eleven  feet  high,  done  on  gl.'.ss,  vv-ith  a 
stained  border  of  allegory  gone  mad,  confronted  us 
as  soon  as  we  entered  the  door.  I  suppose  it  is  in- 
tended as  a  delicate  bait  for  Americans,  this  enormous 
transparency.  There  may  be  souls  so  patriotic  as  to 
thrill  at  sight  of  so  much  Father  to  their  country.  We 
were  profanely  irreverent,  and  never  stopped  laugh- 
ing at  it  while  we  stayed.  It  was  only  by  accident  that 
I  discovered,  in  time  to  secure  the  afternoon  train  to 
London,  that  my  ticket,  which  I  supposed  all  right  for 
Paris,  must  be  changed  at  an  establishment  in  Wat«r 
Street,  Liverpool,  for  something  else ;  so  P.  and  I 
jumped  into  a  hansom,  and  drove  at  such  a  pace  to 
find  the  man  and  the  si)ot  I  P.  had  always  been  afraid 
to  get  into  a  hansom,  from  a  vague  instinct  that  it  was 
not  the  thing  to  do  it ;  but,  emboldened  by  my  vaga- 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


^Z2> 


bond  indifference,  she  yielded  to  her  long-suppressed 
desire,  and  off  we  dashed.  Do  you  want  to  know 
what  a  hansoin  is  like  ?  I  '11  tell  you  exactly,  and  1 
think  myself  that  it  is  not  just  the  thing  for  "  danics 
seules"  to  drive  about  in,  but  I'm  very  glad  we  did 
it.  It  is  a  Franklin  fireplace,  with  cupboard  doors  in 
front,  swung  between  low  wheels,  with  a  high-chair 
fastened  to  it  behind.  In  this  sits  the  driver  with  his 
coat-tails  flying  and  his  elbows  out,  far  above  your 
head,  and  drives  by  reins  which,  to  your  bewildered 
eyes,  appear  to  go  nowhere  and  communicate  with 
nothing.  You  jump  in  ;  the  cupboard  doors  fly  to- 
gether, and  away  you  go  at  a  rate  which  would  make 
Broadway  stare.  If  I  drew  pictures  for  Young  Folks, 
I  'd  draw  a  hansom  in  shape  of  a  larkspur-blossom, 
with  a  wasp  for  a  horse,  and  a  cricket  rearing  itself  up 
behind  to  drive.  Well,  we  did  it  all,  got  our  luggage 
weighed,  and  biibed  a  guard  at  the  railroad  station 
with  a  shilling,  and  he  took  care  of  us  as  if  we  had 
been  his  grandmothers.  He  was  such  a  gorgeous  crea- 
ture in  uniform,  that  it  seemed  to  me  very  audacious  to 
offer  him  a  shilling.  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of 
giving  thirty-seven  and  a  half  cents  to  General  Scott ; 
but,  d'ear  me,  how  he  appreciated  it !  A  burly  old  Eng- 
lishman came  up,  and  made  as  if  he  would  get  into  the 
can-iage  with  us ;  unblushingly  our  champion  told  him 
the  seats  were  all  taken,  and  hustled  liim  off  to  another 
car.  Then  he  came  back,  and  without  a  smile,  said  as 
deliberately  as  if  he  were  recounting  the  most  praise- 
worthy action,  "  I  've  got  'im  into  another  car,  but  I 
donno  as  'ee  '11  stay  there." 

Before  we  knew  it,  we  had  glided  out  of  the  station  -, 
they  have  such  a  marvellous  way  of  beginning  with  their 
engines,  noise  being  the  one  thing  forbidden.  Only 
three  stops  we  made  between  Liverpool  and  London 
and  we  were  only  five  hours  on  the  road.  It  was  so 
soon  dark  that  I  had  but  glimpses  of  the  fields  and 
houses.     The  houses  were  odd-looking  ;  so  much  more 


134      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

color  tlian  ours;  gray^  with  red  and  white  bricks  in  bor- 
ders up  and  down  the  sides.  The  fields  were  as  green  aa 
if  it  had  been  September,  smooth  and  tilled  and  ditched 
to  the  last  possible  point  of  cultivation.  Even  in  those 
Uvo  hours  of  daylight,  I  ached  to  see  a  tangle  in  some- 
thing, or  a  rough  corner.  The  railway  station  in  Lon- 
don was  as  quiet  as  possible.  I  am  perfectly  bewil- 
dered to  conceive  how  they  manage  to  have  such  quiet. 
There  must  be  as  many  trunks  and  as  many  people, 
but  nobody  screams  and  nobody  bangs*  no  cabman 
comes  near  you;  you  find  your  luggage  all  in  a  pile  by 
itself,  sorted  out  as  exactly  and  alphaljetically  as  If  it 
were  clean  clothes  from  the  wash ;  and  there  you  are, 
the  whole  thing  over  I  should  think  that  when  a  for- 
eigner is  first  confronted  by  a  mob  of  New  York  hack- 
men  with  their  whips,  he  would  be  positively  frightened. 
But  I  shall  never  get  through  at  this  rate.  I  must  lay 
down  the  rule  in  the  outset  not  to  say  what  I  think. 
At  nine  o'clock  we  were  going  up  the  steps  of  Batt's 
Hotel,  41  Dover  Street.  Piccadilly.  We  had  tele- 
graphed for  rooms,  so  we  were  met  and  welcomed, 
which  is  always  pleasant:  and  by  such  a  stylish -look- 
ing dame,  in  a  black  silk  gown,  with  a  gold  chain  1 
Another  eminently  respectable  dignitary  lit  our  fires; 
she  wore  a  Iloniton  lace  cap.  A  third,  also  in  a  lace 
cap,  lugged  up  our  bags.  If  a  preponderance  of  our 
own  sex  could  make  us  reputably  established,  we  were 
on  the  pinnacle  of  propriety.  0,  how  blessed  it 
seemed  to  have  the  floor  quiet  under  our  feet,  and  no 
wriggling  or  twisting  screw  in  the  cellar,  no  plash  of 
water  on  our  bedroom  walls!  The  first  house  in 
which  one  sleeps  after  a  sea- voyage  must  seem  like  a 
Paradise,  I  am  sure.  Notiiing  will  seem  to  me  again 
so  home-like  as  those  smutty  bedrooms  and  that  dingy 
parlor.  Q-reat  blazing  fires  of  cannel  coal  in  every 
room,  and  the  air  filled  with  the  smoke  of  thorn! 
They  are  "too  fillin'  at  the  price,"  cosey  as  they  look  at 
first.     All  day  you  wipe  your  face,  and  at  night  you 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


135 


Btart  back  from  it  in  the  glass.  The  streets  are  smoky, 
the  bread  is  smoky,  the  pillow-cases  are  smoky.  1 
wonder  the  word  "  white  "  does  n't  die  out  of  tlie  lan- 
guage. We  saw  no  sun  till  we  came  away ;  —  it  was 
always  just  before  light ! 

We  had  our  dmner  and  breakfast  in  state  in  our  own 
sitting-room,  and  a  waiter  in  such  a  dress-coat,  with 
such  a  white  lace  necktie,  and  such  gold  studs  of  the 
size  of  a  pea !  He  was  too  fine  to  be  reproved  for 
never  remembermg  the  kind  of  bread  we  ordered. 
Sunday  morning  P.  and  I  took  a  cab.  and  drove 
three  miles  to  South  Place  Chapel,  Finsbury,  to  hear 
my  old  friend  Mr.  Conway  preach.  Strangely  enough, 
it  chanced  that  he  gave  that  day  an  account  of  the 
meeting  of  the  Free  Religious  Associations,  which  met 
in  Boston  last  May.  It  was  like  overtaking  a  tidal 
wave,  to  have  journeyed  to  this  little  English  chapel  in 
time  to  hear  those  grand  words  of  John  Weiss  and 
Robert  CoUyer,  echoing  on  this  shore! 

In  the  evening  we  went  to  hear  Spurgeon.  This 
was  a  great  disappointment.  The  Tabernacle  was 
worth  going  to  see,  —  eight  thousand  people  with  in- 
tent upturned  faces,  —  but  when  at  least  six  thousand 
of  those  eight  are  coughing  incessantly,  and  only  one 
man  to  out-tale  the  coughing,  the  result  is  uncom- 
monly unpleasant.  It  is  a  scramble  to  get  a  seat,  but 
a  worse  scramble  to  get  out.  We  did  not  stay.  We 
tried  to  look  as  if  we  were  faint,  but  I  fear  we  got 
quite  too  red,  what  with  the  elbowing  and  the  disgust 
Spurgeon  may  be  eloquent  sometimes;  he  certainly 
was  not  eloquent  that  night.  He  was  simply  a  great, 
strong,  coarse,  earnest  man,  who  said  commonplace 
things  with  huge  emphasis  of  fist  and  voice.  He  called 
the  scribes  "spiritual  mosquitoes,"  and  said  that  when 
Christ  asked  them  certain  questions,  he  "  had  'em  there." 
Tliis  is  all  I  remember  of  what  he  said,  except  that 
his  prayer  lasted  twenty  minutes. 

Monday  was  a  day  never  to  be  forgotten.     From 


136 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


ten  until  five  P.  and  I  drove  abont  that  great  city, 
peering  into  book-shops  on  Paternoster  Row  (no 
Christina  Rossetti  could  I  find  in  twelve  shops,  —  had 
to  go  to  her  publishers)  ;  getting  water-proof  cloaks, 
and  walking  through  Westminster  Abbey,  all  in  a 
breath ;  palaces ;  Houses  of  Parliament ;  dmner  at 
Blanchard's :  mob  and  orator  in  some  great  square,  — 
how  they  did  scream  and  toss  their  hats,  and  the  police 
ordered  one  brougham  to  move  along ;  the  famous 
Mrs.  Brown's  millinery  shop,  where  hats  went  by  doz- 
ens and  guineas  by  scores ;  Regent  Street ;  Trafalgar 
Square;  all  in  a  smoke,  and  all  so  cold,  so  raw,  we 
shivered  like  Boston  people  in  March ;  home  after  dark 
to  dinner ;  and  that  was  my  day  in  London. 

Tuesday,  the  train  to  Folkestone,  —  ten  till  one,  — 
woods  all  yellow  and  brown,  —  hedges  black  and  filmy- 
looking  as  we  whirled  by.  Folkestone,  picturesque  old 
town,  built  up  and  up,  high  gray  stone  houses;  on 
the  wharf,  a  motley  crowd,  ai?  the  newsi)aper-writers 
say,  —  English.  Scotch,  Irish,  Yankee,  and  French, — 
and  the  hideous  green  Channel  leering  triumphantly 
out  at  us  all  from  under  a  fog.  It  was  rather  ugly.  A 
drizzle,  almost  a  rain  ;  people  scrambling  for  floor-room 
to  he  down  in  the  cabin ;  before  we  had  been  out  ten 
minutes,  sailors  coming  up  from  below  with  niacks  of 
unpleasant  crockery  bowls,  which  they  put  down  here 
and  there  by  twos  and  threes  in  everybody's  reach  f 
How  could  the  stomach  of  any  but  a  blind  man  resist 
that?  We  clung  to  a  settee  on  deck;  pitying  men 
who  sailed  the  boat  took  off  their  coats  and  covered 
us  up;  and  it  only  lasted  two  hours-,  then  we  were 
at  Boulogne.  This  was  France.  Drolly  enough,  the 
Frenchiest-lookmg  thmg  I  saw  on  the  hill  was  a  little 
dog,  which  behaved  so  comically  about  his  barking  and 
running  and  stricking  up  his  tail,  I  fancied  he  would 
have  looked  foreign  to  me  if  I  had  seen  him  in  America. 
His  every  hair  seemed  electric. 

We  walked  to  the  railroad  station,  and  a  jabbering 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


137 


French  boy  carried  our  bags.  Behind  us  and  before  us 
clattered  the  fishermen's  wives,  with  their  wooden 
shoes,  down  at  the  heels  and  slipping  off  at  every  step. 
I  thought  horses  were  coming  directly  upon  me,  and 
jumped  to  one  side ;  three  of  these  women  ran  by  laugh- 
ing !  We  lunched  in  a  buffet,  where  the  big  cook  was 
all  in  white,  —  white  paper  cap,  white  linen  apron,  — 
things  astonishingly  good  to  eat  and  hard  to  pronounce. 
Then  more  railway,  five  hours  of  it,  and  we  were  in  Paris. 
Here  the  same  astonishing  quiet,  but  a  tedious  waiting 
till  the  luggage  was  sorted.  Presently  a  tall  man,  with 
"  Interpreter''  on  his  hat-band,  appeared.  Even  N.,  with 
all  her  excellent  knowledge  of  French,  was  glad  to  see 
him.  Only  one  little  trunk,  of  all  our  eight  packages, 
was  opened  by  the  Custom  House  officer,  and  he 
politely  looked  another  way  while  he  lifted  the  lid. 
Several  ornamented  and  caparisoned  creatures  helped 
us  off,  and  we  rattled  away,  luggage  and  all,  long  before 
some  of  the  parties  who  had  men  to  look  after  them, 
had  got  out.  "  9  Rue  Castiglione,  — whatever  time  by 
night  or  day  you  arrive,  come  straight  there,"  S.  0. 
had  written  to  me.  So  there  we  went,  and  at  the 
head  of  the  eighth  (I  think)  flight  of  stairs,  there  she 
stood  waiting  to  welcome  me !  P.  and  N.  drove  on  to 
the  Hotel  Windsor,  where  their  rooms  had  been  en- 
gaged by  telegraph,  —  and  this  was  the  beginning  of 
Paris!  I  began  to  scent  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil  before  I  had  been  in  the  house  five  minutes.  I 
found  my  friends  up  to  ears  in  clothes,  and  whereas  I 
had  been  harassed  with  thinking  they  were  waiting 
for  me  all  this  time,  no,  they  were  not  ready  to  set 
off  for  Rome  yet !  More  "  thmgs  "  were  yet  to  come 
home,  and  we  could  not  possibly  get  off  till  Thurs- 
day night.  Weill,  thus  it  moved  on  again  to  Friday 
morning;  and  tliose  two  days  in  Paris  cost  me,  I 
won't  say  what,  because  it  was  so  very  little  intrinsi- 
cally. Only  I  and  my  own  conscience  know  how 
much  more  it  was  than  I  ought  to  have  spent.     Paris 


138 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


is  just  what  I  thought  it  was,  —  New  York  grown  up, 
graduated  and  with  a  diploma !  I  do  not  care  if  I  never 
see  it  again ;  certainly  I  did  not  see  much  of  it  then. 
It  was  absolutely  necessary  to  rest  all  day  Wednesday. 
Thursday  I  looked  at  the  outside  of  some  of  the  lions, 
and  the  inside  of  some  of  the  stores.  It  is  evident 
that  people  ought  never  to  buy  anything  in  Paris  with- 
out a  Paris  resident  to  go  with  them  and  show  them 
how.  None  of  the  things  that  we  have  bought  are  cheap. 
I  had  great  fun  out  of  not  speaking  French,  —  for  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  humiliation  of  it,  it  is  funny.  The 
conversation  with  my  chambermaid  —  I  talking  English 
and  French,  and  she  French !  —  somehow  by  dint  of 
fingering  a  good  deal,  we  made  out.  The  ignorance  of 
the  English  language  among  these  people  is  really 
melancholy.  But  it  is  a  consolation  sometimes  to  tell 
them  face  to  face  what  they  can't  understand !  The 
woman  who  brought  home  my  hoop  said,  eying  my 
humble  attire  with  ill-concealed  contempt,  "Madame 
will  need  some  other  things,  will  she  not  ?  "  "  Heaven 
forbid  1  "  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  and  adding  ''  Non, 
non,''  —  P.  sitting  by  convulsed  with  laughter  at  the 
woman's  stare.  French  women  who  have  things  to 
sell  never  stop  trying  to  make  you  buy.  She  kept 
on  —  I  dare  say  she  did  really  pity  me  for  having  to 
wear  such  clothes,  —  "  Madame  would  certainly  like 
a  ruffled  petticoat  'pour  le  voyage."  "  Get  thee  behind 
me,  Satan!  "  I  said,  bowing  and  smiling,  and  pressing 
her  towards  the  door.  I  think  she  crossed  herself  when 
she  got  outside !  So  did  I  too  1  What  becomes  of  con- 
scientious convictions  on  the  subject  of  dress,  what 
becomes  of  exact  calculations  as  to  the  proper  expen- 
diture of  a  limited  income,  in  the  Paris  air,  I  don't  know. 
I  should  like  to  see  the  woman  who  could  go  through 
Paris,  and  not  buy  a  gown.  O  the  shape  of  the  things  I 
their  dainty  last  touch  I  and  they  pile  up  their  tempta- 
tions so !  You  must  have  gloves ;  of  course  it  is  simple 
duty  to  go  to  the  glove  store  and  buy  them.    Ah,  what 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


139 


do  you  see  just  under  your  elbow !  —  neckties,  — just  a 
few,  —  blue,  with  point  lace  and  seed  pearls,  —  just  the 
ravishing  thing  for  some  brown-haired  darling  in  Amer- 
ica —  and  it  would  almost  go  in  a  letter,  —  and  it  is 
only  twelve  francs  !  How  you  pat  yourself  on  the 
head  if  you  get  out  of  the  shop  without  buying  it  — 

Genoa,  Friday  Evening,  November  27. 

Right  into  the  middle  of  that  last  sentence,  my  dears, 
broke  the  decision  that  we  must  set  out  for  Genoa  in 
an  hour.  We  had  waited  all  day  Monday  for  sunshine, 
and  half  of  Tuesday,  and  it  was  foolish  to  wait  longer. 
I  have  always  heard  Nice  called  a  "  garden."  It  is  the 
moistest,  coldest,  muddiest  garden  I  ever  saw,  and  has 
the  worst  fireplaces!  The  flowers,  to  be  sure,  are  like 
a  carnival  in  every  direction,  —  roses  of  all  colors, 
oranges,  aloes,  all  the  flowers  I  ever  saw  in  a  con- 
servatory, all  blossoming  at  once,  apparently,  in  and 
out  of  season, — but  how  they  stand  the  cold  fog,  I 
can't  imagine.  They  did  n"t  seem  to  shiver.  I  suppose, 
now,  I  shall  never  tell  you  how  we  rode  from  eleven 
o'clock,  Friday  morning,  till^fe  Saturday,  p.  m.,  to  get 
from  Pai'is  to  Nice,  and  did  n't  die  of  it ;  nor  about  the 
American  Consul,  Judge  A.,  who  came  to  see  us  Sunday 
evening,  and  told  us  volumes  of  gossip  about  the  old 
dethroned  kings,  and  unprincipled  princesses  and  Rus- 
sian countesses  who  pull  each  other's  ears  in  Nice; 
all  about  the  poor  Prince  of  Monaco,  who  sold  his  soul 
to  the  Devil  to  pay  his  tailor  and  keep  his  little  handful 
of  kingdom,  making  it  the  legalized  gambling-ground 
for  all  Europe.  (Afterward,  we  looked  down  on  it 
■from  the  high  hills  on  the  Cornice  Road  ;  it  looked 
like  a  tidy  enough  little  peninsula,  with  no  elbow-room 
for  either  saints  or  sinners.)  Monday  morning  the 
kind  Judge  came  agam  and  walked  us  about  to  have 
one  glimpse  of  the  Public  Gardens  and  the  fine  Pro- 
menade Anglais.     This  hes  along  the  shore  of  the  sea, 


140 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


and  all  fashionable  people  walk  there  in  fine  clothes 
every  afternoon.  It  is  a  concentrated  Bellevue  Ave- 
nue, dear  Newporters,  and  all  the  Nice  people  (not  the 
nicest,  I  suppose)  go  away  and  let  their  houses  just  as 
you  do.  Every  other  villa  has  its  sign  up,  "  a  louer" 
and  it  seemed  positively  odd  not  to  see  "apply  to 
Alfred  Smith  "  below  it.  I  can't  tell  you  about  all  this, 
nor  about  these  three  last  days  on  the  Cornice  Road, 
because  the  latter  is  too  long,  and  I  have  no  time  here 
to  write.  The  last  three  days  have  been  to  the  eye 
what  the  full  orchestra  is  to  the  ear.  Even  from 
divinest  music  one  must  rest.  I  looked  away  from  the 
sea,  the  olives,  the  crags,  the  snow-covered  hills,  and 
studied  the  little  roadside  flowers  till  I  could  look  up 
again.  Sweet-alyssum  grows  like  grass  all  along  the 
road  from  Nice  here. 

Now  I  shall  warm  myself  before  a  fire  in  a  cave 
under  a  marble  mantel-piece  and  go  to  bed.  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  any  more  realization  of  being 
lodged  in  an  old  palace,  if  I  knew  what  particular 
Gruelph  or  G-hibelline  had  toasted  his  feet  on  this  very 
slab,  than  I  have  now.  Such  a  fresco  is  over  my  head, 
—  such  a  distance  as  my  walls  reach  up !  I  go  about 
in  the  dark  with  a  candle  like  an  old  woman  in  a  great 
dark  barn  with  a  lantern.  I  get  up  on  a  chair  to  step 
into  my  bed.  There  is  a  tapestry-hanging  which  con- 
ceals a  door ;  the  door  is  just  behind  my  bed,  —  it 
won't  lock,  and  has  already  been  opened  once  by  mis- 
take. If  this  is  n't  splendor,  what  is !  We  are  so  gay 
with  it  all,  we  don't  know  what  to  do  with  ourselves, 
and  we  are  unpacking  our  pm-cushions  and  slippers  as 
if  we  meant  to  stay  a  week,  instead  of  two  days  To- 
morrow, palaces,  churches,  jewelry !  Monday  we  move 
on  towards  Rome,  — just  how  we  don't  know,  but  as 
fast  as  we  can. 

Nobody  knows  half  so  well  as  I  do  how  stupid  this 
letter  is.  But  when  you  come  to  try  at  it  yourselves, 
you  '11  find  that  it  is  harder  than  you  think.  There  is 
so  much  too  much  to  say. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TEA  VELLER. 


141 


RoKE,  Monday,  December  14, 1868. 

DEAR  SOULS :  Now  we  are  at  housekeeping; 
and  this  is  my  house-warming  letter.  Did  n't 
"we  have  a  time  of  it  to  get  a  house  at  all  ?  0,  how 
easy  it  looked  at  first!  Every  other  house  has  up 
its  sign,  "  Camere  Mobiliate " :  we  were  not  at  all 
ambitious ;  all  we  demanded  was  to  have  sun  in 
all  our  rooms,  three  bedrooms,  and  a  fire  in  each 
bedroom.  What  could  be  simpler  ?  How  our  spirits 
went  down,  down,  as  we  climbed  up  staircase  after 
staircase,  and  found  dark  rooms,  no  stoves,  or  else  a 
kitchen  where  the  Padrona  must  have  the  privilege 
of  coming  to  cook  "just  a  Uttle  trifle  two  or  three 
times  a  day  "  ;  or  else  a  rent  of  one  hundred  and  forty 
dollars  a  month.  Ah,  at  the  end  of  the  first  day  we 
were  very  meek  people,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second 
we  were  abject'  There  can't  be  many  things  in  this 
world  so  bewildering  as  looking  after  lodgings  in  Rome. 
In  the  first  place,  the  door  into  which  you  enter,  at 
the  begmning,  looks  like  the  very  dirty  and  neglected 
entrance  to  some  old  warehouse  on  a  wharf,  in  a  city 
where  there  has  not  been  any  business  for  a  hundred 
years.  You  stand  there  a  minute,  and  say,  "  O  dear  I  " 
(especially  if  you  have  already  been  up  five  or  six 
hundred  steps  that  morning,)  "  I  do  wish  they  would 
tell  on  their  cards  how  many  rooms  there  are !  "  Per- 
haps we  shall  find  somebody  on  the  third  floor  who 
can  tell  us.  Not  a  bit  of  it;  up  flight  after  flight  you 
crawl ;  on  each  floor  is  one  great  grim  iron  door,  with 
a  ring  and  a  chain  hanging  outside.  You  have  no 
business  to  pull  the  ring  on  any  floor  but  the  floor 
with  which  your  business  is;    and  if  you  did,  they 


142     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

would  n't  know  anything  about  any  floor  b.it  theii 
own.  Each  floor  is  its  own  Aowse,  as  much  as  if  it 
were  six  miles  off  from  any  other  floor.  When  you 
get  up  to  the  one  hundred  and  seventh  stair  you  would 
be  so  glad  to  sit  down,  but  you  can't.  They  don't  put 
either  chairs  or  benches  in  these  grim  passages; 
and  the  stairs  are  all  stone.  You  can't  sit  on  them, 
not  if  you  are  half  dead ;  so  you  lean  up  against  the 
wall  and  get  your  black  cloak  all  white  and  cobwebbed, 
while  you  wait  for  the  mysterious  chain  and  ring, 
which  you  have  pulled,  to  bring  forth,  an  answer. 
Then  the  great  door  creaks  and  opens,  and  you  get 
breath  enough  to  ask  if  they  have  furnished  rooms  to 
let,  and  if  there  are  three  bedrooms,  with  sun  and  fire. 
After  a  little  while  you  learn  that  it  makes  no  differ- 
ence whether  they  have  or  have  not;  they  always 
say,  "  SI,  si,  signora."  Before  you  learn  this  you  go  in 
quite  gayly,  and  think  you  are  all  right.  Then  you  see 
one  great  bedroom  with  two  beds,  and  one  little  one,  on 
neither  of  which  the  sun  has  apparently  ever  shone ; 
a  fine  parlor,  with  stands  of  artificial  roses  under  high 
glass  cases,  no  end  of  china  teacups  sitting  around ; 
usually  about  twenty  frightful  pictures  on  the  walls ; 
in  the  dining-room  there  is  a  great  display  of  glass  and 
china  on  the  table ;  and  the  Padrone,  if  he  is  at  home, 
and  the  Padrona,  and  the  one  or  two  or  three  daugh- 
ters, all  down  at  the  heel,  and  down  at  the  neck,  and 
huddled  up  somehow  with  pins  and  strings  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  looking  like  rag-men  and  rag-women,  begin 
to  talk,  all  at  once,  with  their  tongues  and  their  shoul- 
ders and  their  fingers ;  and  they  tell  you  that  the  sun 
jhines  at  some  impossible  hour  of  the  day,  at  some  im- 
possible angle,  into  all  three  rooms ;  and  that  two  beds 
in  one  bedroom  are  exactly  the  same  thing  as  two 
bedrooms  with  a  bed  in  each ;  and  that  their  linen  and 
their  silver  and  their  furniture  are  "  so  much,  so  much," 
and  "  so  fine,  so  fine  "  ;  and  they  sn^ile  and  sliow  whita 
teeth,  and  their  eyes  are  such  ?  lovely  brown-black, 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER,      i^^ 

that  you  are  in  some  danger  of  believing  them ;  and 
then  if  you  say  that  you  must  have  a  "  free  kitchen," 
which  means  simply  that  they  are  not  to  have  the  use 
of  your  tea  and  sugar  and  bread,  they  shrug  their 
shoulders,  and  look  at  each  other,  with  such  an  ex- 
pression of  injury,  that  you  feel  like  an  awful  sneak 
yourself, — just  as  if  you  had  stolen  all  your  life; 
and  for  all  that,  you  know  that  you  are  the  honest 
one,  and  they  steal,  and  you  know  the  rooms  won't 
do  at  all,  and  you  edge  along  to  the  door ;  and  then 
the  faces  of  the  Padrone  and  the  Padrona  and  the 
daughters  all  grow  black,  and  the  white  teeth  go  down 
their  throats  apparently,  they  disappear  so  absolutely 
and  forever ;  and  as  you  fairly  step  out  of  the  door,  if 
you  wish  to  know  the  true  character  of  the  people  you 
might  have  lived  with,  turn  around  quickly  and  look 
at  the  faces  which  have  settled  down,  behind  your 
back !  This  is  what  we  did  for  two  days  and  a  half. 
We  exhausted  the  list  which  friends  had  given  us; 
then  we  drove  slowly  up  and  down  the  streets  where 
it  would  do  to  live  (by  the  way,  there  are  not -more 
than  a  dozen  of  them  in  all  this  great  city),  and  looked  at 
the  signs,  and  whenever  we  saw  one  which  we  thought 
promised  the  least  chance  of  success,  out  we  got,  and  up 
we  climbed.  In  one  place  we  would  find  a  parlor  so 
sunny,  so  comfortable,  that  we  could  not  leave  it ;  then 
the  bedrooms  were  wrong ;  in  another  the  bedrooms 
could  be  made  to  answer,  but  the  parlor  was  a  den, 
and  cold  as  a  barn ;  then  we  were  taken  with  great 
love  of  a  view,  or  of  the  blankets,  or  of  the  china  and 
glass,  which  we  would  have  liked  to  take  away  with 
us,  to  use  in  the  other  house,  which  we  still  firmly  be- 
lieved was  awaiting  us  somewhere.  Then  we  came  up- 
on one  quite  fine  and  comfortable  and  sunny,  and  then 
the  rent  would  be  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars a  month,  and  we  wduld  meekly  say,  "  Troppo," 
and  go  away,  followed  by  pitying  looks  between  the 
landlord  and  lady.     By  the  way,  I  never  thought  be' 


144 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


fore  of  the  composition  of  the  word  "  landlord  and 
lady  "  :  no  wonder  they  are  so  lordly  in  their  ways. 
At  last  we  found  our  house.  It  was  my  inspu-ation,  and 
I  take  great  credit  to  myself;  high  up  on  the  Via 
Quattro  Fontane  (four  fountains),  just  opposite  the 
Barberini  Palace,  on  the  corner  opposite  Miss  Hosmer's 
house.  Think  of  that !  Are  n't  we  in  luck  ?  Well, 
it  happened  oddly  that  the  good  people,  being  modest, 
had  stuck  out  "  Piccolo  appartamento  "  on  their  sign. 

Longingly  I  had  looked  at  the  corner  twice,  as  we 

neared  it,  and  said  to  S ,  "  I  suppose  there  is  no 

use  in  looking  at  anything  which  an  Italian  calls  in 
the  outset  '  small.'  " 

"  0  no,"  she  said,  "  not  the  least." 

So  it  came  to  be  near  night  on  the  third  day,  and 
we  were  still  homeless.  We  were  driving  back  to  our 
hotel  and  passed  this  house.  Still  the  same  little  sign 
which  had  seemed  all  day  to  have  a  magic  fascination 
for  me  I  I  said,  ''  Let  us  look  at  it ;  it  will  do  no  harm." 
A  strange  sort  of  delight  took  possession  of  me  as 
I  first  trod  on  the  stairs  ;  they  were  stone,  but  clean ; 
the  flights  were  short,  and  the  halls  were  comparatively 
light.  Such  a  beauty  as  opened  the  door  for  us !  Ah, 
if  you  could  see  her  I  Just  now  she  came  to  bring  me 
an  egg  beaten  up  in  milk,  and  as  she  set  it  on  the  table, 
and  said,  "  Signora,"  the  grace  and  gentleness  of  her 
motion,  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  —  ah  me,  I  believe 
I  had  tears  in  my  eyes  to  look  at  her.  I  never  saw 
just  such  a  human  creature  before  !  Well,  the  beauty 
opened  the  door  (she  is  only  a  maid  of  all  work,  this 
beauty,  our  Marianina),  and  then  she  called  the  Padro- 
na,  who  came,  having  the  same  sweet,  gentle  ways, 
but  looking  so  ill,  so  iU.  She,  poor  soul,  has  had  the 
fever.  The  rooms  were  charming,  —  a  parlor  on  the 
southeast  corner,  two  windows ;  a  dining-room,  two 
bedrooms,  and  such  a  kitchen,  resplendent  with 
copper.  But  that  I  '11  tell  you  about  later  All 
except  tlie  tliird  bedi-oom,  this  was  our  place.    How 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      145 

we  looked  at  each  other,  and  went  back  and  forth 
through  the  dear  six  rooms  (there  was  one  great  dark 
room),  trying  to  make  them  count  more  than  they 
would.  I  began  to  feel  like  the  "  fifth  kitten,"  and 
think  I  might  as  well  be  drowned.  O  dear,  only  three 
out  of  you  dear  twelve  will  have  the  least  idea  what 
"  fifth  kitten  "  means ;  never  mind,  I  can't  help  it,  per- 
haps you  can  find  out.  Suddenly  I  said,  "  Why  need 
we  have  a  dining-room  ?  We  are  not  grand ;  we 
shall  not  entertain  any  but  our  own  sort ;  we  can  have 
dinner  in  the  parlor,  and  the  dining-room  will  make  a 
good  bedroom."  So  it  did.  So  it  does ;  and  L — ■ — 
sleeps  in  it,  and  here  we  are  I  And  now  I  wonder  if 
I  can  tell  you  how  the  rooms  look,  and  if  you  will 
care  if  I  do ;  at  any  rate,  it  is  Roman  housekeeping,  so 
you  might  like  to  know  how  we  do  it.  Ah,  if  you 
would  all  come  and  do  likewise  !  I  don't  believe  it  is 
in  the  least  "  as  the  Romans  do,"  though ;  poor  souls, 
I  have  a  lurking  doubt  whether  even  the  Dorias  and 
the  Borgheses  are  half  as  comfortable  as  we  are.  The 
two  Romans  who  have  come  to  see  us  go  away  out 
into  the  northeast  corner  of  our  little  parlor  to  sit 
down,  and  look  with  dismay  at  our  great  wood-fire,  and 
say,  "  0,  thank  you,  I  will  sit  here ;  we  do  not  have 
fires."  "  I  think  them  exqueesetely  beautiful,"  said 
Signor  L ,  the  other  day,  meaning  to  be  very  po- 
lite, "  but  I  find  them  very  hot !  "  I  really  think  he 
supposed  we  kept  our  fire  for  ornament,  and  endured 
the  discomfort  of  the  heat  as  the  price  of  the  pretty 
display.  But  this  is  not  telling  you  about  the  house ; 
only,  from  this  you  will  see  that  we  have  wood-fires. 
Ay,  that  we  do,  in  the  parlor  and  in  two  of  the  bed- 
rooms ;  mine  crackles  at  this  moment  as  lustily  as  if  it 
were  of  Vermont  maple,  instead  of  little  round  sticks 
of  I  don't  know  what,  but  something  quite  worthless 
and  small,  which  I  amuse  myself  with  by  building  it 
up  mto  cob-houses  on  the  hearth,  and  then  the  fire 
trips  up  from  side  to  side  and  in  and  out,  like  an  acro- 
7  9 


146     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

bat.  Well,  well,  now  I  will  be  exact,  and  describe  a 
thing  or  two.  You  see  this  old  Rome  goes  to  one's 
head,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  keep  a  steady  hand. 

Firstly,  comes  our  parlor ;  it  is  cosey,  and  that  is  a 
rare  thing  here ;  it  is  long  rather  than  square,  and  it 
has  one  window  to  the  northeast  and  one  to  the  east ; 
we  make  much  of  the  east  window,  for  out  of  it  we 
see  such  lovely  red-tiled  roofs,  and  a  bit  of  an  orange- 
garden  high  up  above  the  roofs,  and  a  whole  cypress- 
tree;  into  it  comes  straight  sun,  and  that  is  worth 
solid  gold,  inches  deep,  for  every  inch  that  it  covers 
on  our  carpet.  We  don't  spread  down  any  Cranford 
papers  I  not  we  1  Our  northeast  window  looks  out  un- 
terrified  on  the  Barberini  Palace.  There  is  the  lovely, 
sad  Beatrice,  who  will  be  my  friend  in  rainy  days ;  I 
have  not  sat  with  her  yet,  because  there  has  been  no 
rainy  day  when  I  dared  to  go  out ;  and  on  the  pleas- 
ant days  there  is  always  some  artist  or  other  copying 
her,  which  I  should  so  dislike  that  I  could  not  see  her 
well.  Clouds,  I  think,  could  not  cut  oflf  so  much  light 
as  one  man. 

At  first  our  parlor  had  so  much  glass  case  and  stack 
of  flowers  and  marble-top  table,  that  we  did  not  know 
what  to  do  ;  now  it  has  only  two  marble-topped  affairs, 
and  they  are  covered  with  books ;  then  there  is  a  mar- 
vellous square  dining-table  which  can  be  stretched  into 
any  size,  and  I  firmly  believe  also  into  any  shape;  I  have 
n't  yet  seen  it  in  an  octagon,  but  I  expect  to.  As  soon 
as  I  have  learned  the  Italian  verbs,  I  shall  attack  this 
table  and  find  out  how  it  goes.  Then  we  have  great 
arm-chairs,  called  poltronas ;  (why  ?  for  lazy  cowards 
who  shirk  sitting  up  straight,  I  suppose ;)  and  a  sofa 
and  common  chairs  innumerable ;  and  all  these  are 
green,  and  the  paper  is  green,  and  the  carpet  is  green 
and  red.  The  mantel  is  covered  with  red  velvet,  with 
a  deep  fringe  ;  on  it  is  a  pretty  clock  under  a  glass  case, 
and  a  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  who  hold  candles. 
There  were  two  china  vases,  big  as  hay-stacks,  but  we 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


147 


banished  them  to  our  art-gallery  in  the  dark  room! 
Our  parlor  would  delight  us  unqualifiedly,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  pictures.  We  have  banished  so  much  of 
the  sweet  Padrona's  china  and  glass  finery,  that  we 
have  not  the  heart  to  ask  to  have  all  the  pictures  car- 
ried off;  I  think  we  shall  do  it  ultimately,  though,  and 
are  wasting  our  strength  in  this  interval  of  martyr- 
dom ;  —  it  is  incredible  till  you  have  seen  it,  this  pro- 
fusion of  awful  pictures.  Out  of  the  parlor  opens  a 
bedroom,  Miss  C 's ;  high  iron  bedstead,  lace-cur- 
tained, handsome  dressing-table,  wardrobe  with  full- 
length  glass,  bureau,  etc.,  all  marble-topped ;  then  comes 
the  dark  room  ;  ah,  chaos  itself!  trunks,  chairs,  —  there ! 
I  mean  to  go  this  minute  and  count  the  chairs  in  our 
house.  There  are  thirty-two.,  in  this  tiny  little  house ; 
it  is  very  droll  to  see  so  many ;  only  four  small  rooms 
and  thirty-two  chairs.  I  am  not  certain  that  there  are 
not  more,  for  I  could  not  count  those  very  well  which 
were  piled  up  in  stacks  in  the  dark  room.  Everything 
is  of  the  nicest  quality,  solid  woods,  black-walnut  or 
mahogany,  with  seats  of  morocco  or  green  or  crimson 
damask.  But  now  I  shall  tell  you  no  more  about  fiir- 
niture,  excepting  of  my  writing-desk  ;  this  alone  proves 

that  the  house  was  predestined  for  us.     Miss  P 

says  she  never  saw  such  a  thing  in  a  Roman  house  be- 
fore ;  I  never  sat  to  write  at  anything  half  so  fine ; 
solid  mahogany,  quite  finely  carved,  four  drawers,  then 
a  desk  covered  with  green  morocco  which  lets  down,  and 
reveals  a  shelf  with  a  looking-glass  back,  and  five 
drawers;  (one  with  a  false  bottom;  how  I  pine  for  a 
secret!)  then  above  this  another  drawer,  and  on  the 
top,  room  for  many  of  my  dear  books,  if  they  ever, 
ever  get  here.  This  stands  across  one  corner  of  my 
sunny  little  bedroom,  and  one  window  on  my  right 
hand  opens  on  a  little  ledge  called  a  balcony,  and  looks 
out  on  the  wall  of  the  Quirinal.  Ought  I  not  to  write 
to  you  better  than  I  shall  from  such  a  comer  as  this  ? 
Now  I  must  tell  you  about  our  kitchen.     This  is,  after 


148 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


all,  the  crowning  glory  of  this  wonderful  little  "  apart- 
ment," our  house.  Such  sun  as  lies  in  our  kitchen,  two 
windows  full  I  and  such  copper  as  it  shines  on  !  They 
must  have  made  ready  for  a  minute  prince  and  princess, 
who  would  give  dinners  to  retinues  of  small  people 
in  the  little  dining-room ;  twelve  shining  copper  ccr^- 
seroles^  all  sizes,  up  to  big  ones  so  big  an  orchard  could 
be  made  into  apple-sauce  in  them ;  copper  jars  with 
handles,  copper  basins,  copper  kettles,  all  hanging  on 
the  wall  in  the  sun ;  all  new,  shining  like  mirrors ; 
white  wooden  table,  solid  log,  on  legs,  to  pound  beef- 
steak on  ;  I  think  the  log  must  have  come  from  Amer- 
ica; it  is  huge  and  looks  like  hickory.  Ah,  but  the  place 
for  the  fire  !  —  I  don't  believe  I  can  tell  you  how  odd 
it  is.  Every  time  I  go  into  the  kitchen,  I  stand  and 
look  and  look  at  it,  and  Marianina  comes  in  and  finds 
me,  and  looks  so  anxious,  because  she  is  afraid  some- 
thing is  wrong.  Imagine  the  biggest  range  you  ever 
saw,  only  not  a  range  at  all,  just  a  great  stone  table 
with  an  arch  under  it  and  a  chimney  above  it;  you 
can  look  right  up  the  chimney;  all  the  steam  from 
things  you  boil  goes  up  this  big  chimney.  You  keep  the 
charcoal  in  this  arch  under  your  stone  table,  and  you 
,  build  a  fire  on  your  stone  table,  anywhere  you  like,  and 
then  there  is  a  little  square  hole  on  one  side,  and  you 
fill  that  with  hot  coals  from  your  fire,  and  set  your  tea- 
kettle on  them ;  and  then  you  put  a  great  gridiron 
above  the  whole  of  your  fire,  or  half  of  your  fire,  and 
set  your  copper  casseroles  on  the  gridiron,  and  that  is 
the  way  you  cook.  People  who  know  say  great  and 
delicious  dinners  can  be  gotten  up  by  these  fires  on 
these  tables ;  we  don't  cook  our  dinners ;  they  come 
in  a  tin  box  on  a  man's  head,  and  are  smoking-hot 
when  we  get  them ;  so  we  only  try  the  wonderful 
table-cooking  to  make  our  tea,  and  boil  our  rice,  and 
bake  our  potatoes  for  breakfast ;  but  we  are  going  to 

stew   pears,  and   make  oatmeal  pudding,  and  L 

and  I  have  our  eye  on  a  surprise   of  a  hash  some 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER,      j^^ 

morning,  if  we  have  a  chopping- tray,  which  we  have  n't 
yet  remembered  to  find  out.  I  must  not  forget  our 
well ;  that  is  in  the  kitchen  too,  and  it  has  a  door  to  it, 
a  little  square  door,  black  like  the  door  to  an  oven  ,  and 
it  is  close  to  the  stone  table  and  chimney,  so  I  said,  "  Of 
course  this  is  the  oven  " ;  and  I  popped  my  head  in,  — 
such  a  stream  of  cold  air  1  and  a  slender  iron  chain,  and 
a  dark  wonderful  place,  which  did  n't  seem  to  begin  or 
end.  Then  I  looked  up  and  I  saw  the  sky;  and  I 
looked  down,  and  way,  way  down,  near  China  I  should 
think,  —  or  is  it  you  who  are  at  bottom  now  ?  —  there 
was  a  gleam  of  sunshine  on  water;  then  I  drew  my 
head  out,  and  there  stood  the  Padrona  laughing  hard. 
How  this  water  is  carried  about  I  do  not  yet  under- 
stand ;  but  there  it  is,  ready  and  flowing,  day  and  night ; 
sun  on  it  by  day,  and  stars  by  night,  and  it  comes  from 
the  fountain  of  Trevi.  So  we,  of  all  people  in  Rome, 
are  sure  to  get  so  spell-bound  that  we  shall  return  and 
return,  since  we  not  only  drink  once,  but  daily,  of  the 
charmed  water ;  and  not  only  drink  it  daily,  but  bathe  in 
it  daily !  From  each  story  in  this  house  opens  a  little 
black  door  into  this  secret  well-turret.  Many  times  a 
day  I  hear  the  chain  clinking  up  and  down,  as  the  peo- 
ple above  draw  water. 

Now  one  thing  more  is  really  part  of  our  house.  It 
is  on  the  floor  above ;  a  little  open  loggia,  out-doors 
room,  where,  when  it  is  warmer,  we  shall  sit  and  study 
and  work ;  this  is  over  our  parlor,  so  looks  down  on 
the  palace,  and  off  over  the  roofs ;  to  the  east  and  north 
it  has  a  railing,  and  rows  of  geraniums  and  orange-trees 
in  pots  around  it,  and  chairs  more  than  we  need.  This 
is  the  best  thing  of  all,  perhaps. 

Upon  this  upper  floor  live  our  sweet  Padrona  and 
her  husband  and  little  girl.  The  husband  is  a  master- 
mason,  and  his  name  is  Biagio  Frontoni ;  the  Padrona 
is  Vittoria  and  the  little  girl  who  has,  like  two  thirds 
of  the  lucky  little  girls  in  Rome,  the  lovely  low  broad 
brow   and   straight  nose   and  curved   lips  on   which 


150     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

mothers  here  look  all  their  days,  is  called  Erminia.  Er- 
minia  owns  four  hens  and  a  cock ;  and  they  live  very 
happily  on  corn  up  five  flights  of  stairs,  and  never  go 
out.  All  the  money  for  the  eggs  is  Erminia's,  and  we 
are  so  sorry  that  vv^e  don't  eat  a  great  many.  I  take  one 
every  noon,  beaten  up  in  milk,  partly  for  love  of  Er- 
minia. Yesterday  Marianina  came  running  at  eleven 
o'clock  into  the  parlor,  and,  talking  very  fast,  just  as  if 
I  could  understand  her,  laid  one  of  two  snow-white 
eggs  against  my  cheek  so  that  I  might  feel  how  -vfzxxa. 
it  was  !  not  more  than  half  a  minute  old  I  should  say  1 
Then,  seeing  that  I  was  so  pleased  with  that,  she  dart- 
ed off,  and  in  a  minute  more  came  back  with  the  very 
hen  cuddled  under  her  arm,  as  quiet  as  a  kitten !  The 
hen  looked  as  if  she  must  be  purring.  I  dare  say  she 
was  —  in  Italian,  which  I  don't  understand. 

Now  what  remains  for  the  house-warming,  except 
to  tell  you  what  we  have  to  eat  ?  Soup,  roast-beef,  or 
lamb,  or  mutton,  with  potatoes ;  a  chicken  or  a  pair  of 
pigeons,  with  cauliflower,  or  spinach,  or  celery ;  one 
dish  of  dolci  for  dessert ;  sometimes  boiled  rice,  with 
wonderful  sauce  made  of  raspberry-jelly ;  sometimes 
puffy  pie,  which  people  who  eat  pie  would  like ;  some- 
times charlotte-russe ;  sometimes  stewed  pears  with 
raisins,  ve.ry  delicious:  always  four  courses.  This  all 
comes  in  a  tin  box  on  a  man's  head  from  a  restaurant, 
and  we  pay  for  it  daily  only  seven  francs  ;  always  there 
is  meat  enough  left  for  our  breakfast  and  lunch  the 
next  day.  Then  when  we  add  Graham  bread  from  the 
English  bakery,  almost  as  good  as  home-made,  and  but- 
ter fresh  each  day,  a  bottle  of  cream  each  morning,  and 
oranges  and  apples  by  dozens,  it  is  plain  that  we  are 
feasting. 

HoAV  much  does  it  cost  us  ?  Ah,  we  don't  yet  know ; 
we  are  a  little  afraid  that  when  we  add  all  up  at  the  end 
of  the  month,  we  shall  be  constrained  to  decide  not  to 
eat  two  oranges  apiece  at  every  meal  any  longer.  But 
just  now  we  don't  count  costs.     The  rent  of  our  house, 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


151 


with  the  service  of  the  beauty  Marianina,  who  does  all 
we  want  done  in  doors  and  out,  is  seventy-six  scudi  a 
month,  about  eighty-one  dollars  and  fifty  cents.  The 
dinners  cost  us  about  forty-five  dollars  a  month,  —  about 
forty-three  dollars  a  month  each,  this  makes,  all  told,  — 
and  we  hope  to  get  in  tlie  wood  and  the  oil  and  the  bread 
and  the  butter  and  the  cream  and  the  oranges,  etc.,  with- 
in twenty  dollars  a  month  more  (for  each).  This  is 
not  very  cheap  living,  but  then  it  is  Rome.  If  we  had 
come  earlier,  we  could  have  found  cheaper  rooms ;  and 
if  it  had  been  last  winter  instead  of  this,  everything 
would  have  been  cheaper  still ;  but  if  gold  will  only 
"stay  put  "  or  not  get  above  135,  we  shall  not  grumble 
at  paying  sixty-five  dollars  a  month  for  such  fife  as 
this.  Now  what  will  there  be  to  tell  you  next  month, 
since  I  have  told  you  all  this  now,  and  I  am  under 
bonds  never  to  write  about  ruins  ?  We  shall  see  ;  per- 
haps  it  will  be  Ostia,  after  all ;  for  if  we  go  down 

into  those  depths  with  Signor  L ,  the  archfeologist, 

who  promises  to  take  us,  I  think  there  wiU  be  some- 
thing worth  telling,  in  spite  of  its  being  ruins  /  If  I 
do  not  hear  regularly  each  month  from  you  all,  I  shall 
write  no  more.  How  shall  I  know  you  care  to  hear  ? 
How  shall  I  know  you  are  alive  ?  God  bless  you  all. 
Good  by. 


,5 2      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


Rome,  Tuesday  Ere,  January  19, 1869 

DEAR  PEOPLE :  What  do  you  suppose  we  do 
with  letters  ?  I  '11  tell  you.  We  read  them  over 
and  over  and  over  and  over,  until  we  know  them  just 
as  well  as  we  know  our  alphabets ;  and  then  we  put 
them  on  our  table,  where  we  can  see  them  all  the  time 
till  we  go  to  bed ;  and  then,  the  next  day,  we  read 
them  a  great  deal  more,  and  carry  them  in  our  pockets, 
and  feel  every  now  and  then  to  see  if  they  are  there ; 
and  then,  the  next  day  —  Well,  there  is  no  use  in 
going  on  forever  with  the  story ;  but  there  are  Amer- 
icans who  have  been  seen  reading  over  old  letters  in 
the  Coliseum !  There  now,  if  you  don't  all  write  to 
me  after  this,  you  are  the  nethermost  of  millstones; 
and,  once  for  all,  let  me  say  (because  this  is  my  last 
appeal  for  letters),  do  write  all  the  most  insignificant 
details,  —  what  you  have  for  dinner,  and  the  color 
of  your  winter  bonnet ;  what  was  your  last  ailment, 
and  whether  you  took  aconite  or  calomel;  if  your 
front  gate  is  off  its  hinges,  or  your  minister  has  had  a 
donation-party  ;  who  came  in  last  to  see  you,  and  what 
they  had  to  say.  Don't  suppose  that  anything  can  be 
too  unimportant  to  tell.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  Wait  till  you  have  been  hungry  yourself 
Here  ends  the  "  Complete  European  Letter- Writer." 

And  next  ?     To-night  it  shall  be  about  ruins.    Don't 
think  I  forget  your  savage  injunctions,  dear  young 

woman  of  N ,  who  said  to  me,  "  Don't  write  about 

ruins,  whatever  else  you  do."  For  all  that,  I  shall  tell 
you  where  L and  I  went  this  afternoon.  At  di- 
vers times,  thick  envelopes  had  been  left  at  our  door, 
containing  the  most  learned  prospectuses  of  the  BriV 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


153 


ish  Arelifeological  Society,  and  setting  forth  in  terms 
which  sounded  fine  the  rules  and  the  advantages  of 
being  members  of  the  same.  We  thought  we  did  not 
know  enough,  and  we  did  not  know  anybody  who  be- 
longed, and  so  it  slipped  along  and  we  did  n't  join,  and 
yet  we  had  all  the  while  a  hankering  after  it.  They 
have  a  lecture  every  Friday  night  in  which  some  es- 
pecial ruin  is  described,  and  then  the  members  of  the 
society  take  an  excursion  on  the  next  fine  day  to  see 
the  ruin.  It  is  the  fashion  to  laugh  at  this,  you  know ; 
therefore  very  few  Americans  have  anything  to  do 
with  it,  for  which  they  are  silly ;  though  I  dare  say  I 
should  have  laughed  too,  if  I  had  got  my  first  impres- 
sion of  it,  as  oul  of  my  friends  did,  from  seeing  the 
whole  crowd,  one  day,  rushing  pell-mell  down  a  steep 
place,  not  into  the  sea,  but  nearly  into  the  Tiber,  and 
knocking  each  other  over  in  their  wild  eagerness  to 
get  down  to  the  lecturer,  and  hear  his  explanations; 
and  perhaps  I  should  have  found  it  a  bore  if  I  had  be- 
gun with  a  lecture.  But  we  took  the  excursion  first ; 
and  it  is  that  from  which  we  came  home,  cold  and  tired 
and  hungry,  three  hours  ago,  but  from  which  I  am 
rested  now,  and  about  which  I  shall  tell  you,  if  I  can 
get  to  it.  I  shall  have  all  the  names  wrong,  but  you 
won't  care.  I  shall  not  have  the  first  name  wrong, 
though,  for  that  is  Trastevere.  I  love  the  vei-y  sound 
of  the  word ;  they  never  mean  to  live  or  die  out  of  it, 
these  proud  poor  souls,  who  think  themselves  more  Ro- 
man than  other  Romans.  I  fancy  they  are  all  nobler  in 
their  looks  over  there.  If  I  were  a  man  I  should 
certainly  go  and  live  in  Trastevere  and  find  out  some 
secrets.  Painters  like  to  paint  the  Trastevere  women ; 
but  About  says  people  have  died  who  looked  too  curi- 
ously at  them :  I  can  easily  believe  this. 

Well,  we  drove  over  an  old,  old  bridge  (I  know  the 
name  of  that,  too,  but  I  won't  tell  it)  into  Trastevere, 
and  wormed  our  way  in  and  round  the  lanes  and  un- 
der all  the  washerwomen's  wet  clothes  hanging  on  lines 
7* 


154     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

from  window  to  window,  and  came  to  the  church  of 
San  Crisogono,  from  whose  steps  the  Archajological 
Society  were  to  get  out  at  precisely  2  p.  m.  (Sounds 
a  httle  bunghng  for  the  name  of  a  pleasure  excursion, 
does  n't  it  ?)  There  was  the  church,  solemn  and  still 
as  death.  Not  a  soul  to  be  seen ;  we  ran  round  the 
other  side ;  worse  and  worse.  There  were  the  empty 
carriages  in  which  the  A.  S.  had  come  (lucky  there  is 
only  one  S.,  for  I  must  really  abbreviate  it)  to  Traste- 
vere,  but  no  A.  S.  I  The  coachmen,  many  of  them 
private,  looked  at  us  with  the  becoming  nonchalance  of 
British  coachmen  who  drove  the  A.  S.  about,  and  we 
thought  we  would  n't  ask  them  any  questions ;  so  we 
prowled  a  little,  and  presently  a  sunny  Itahan  face 
said,  "  Ecco  I  Ecco !  "  and  pointed  to  a  door.  He  knew 
what  we  were  after,  and  so,  for  that  matter,  did  the 
British  coachmen. 

Into  the  door  we  went,  and  down  a  winding  stair, 
and  plumped  right  on  the  A.  S.  before  we  knew  it. 
There  it  was,  large  as  life ;  it  had  about  a  hundred 
legs,  all  pretty  badly  dressed.  I  don't  know  which 
were  ugliest,  the  trousers  or  the  petticoats.  A  gray- 
haired  man  in  the  middle  of  the  group  was  talking 
earnestly  and  showing  photographs,  and  everybody 
was  crowding  up  to  see ;  the  place  they  were  in  was 
like  a  great  open  cellar  with  high  walls,  and  several 
other  cellars  opening  out  of  it.  L and  I  felt  a  lit- 
tle dashed  at  first,  but  in  a  moment  our  friend  Sign  or 

L stepped  up,  and  took  us  under  his  wing,  and 

there  we  were  launched  as  archaeologists. 

I  must  tell  you  about  Signer  L .     Miss  C 

had  a  letter  to  him,  and  we  \tere  told  that  he  had 
charge  of  government  excavations,  and  could  do  more 
than  any  one  else  to  show  us  curious  old  ruins,  was  a 
distinguished  archaeologist,  etc.,  etc.  So  the  letter  was 
sent,  and  we  waited  patiently  for  the  first  visit  from 
the  arcliiJeologist.  We  thought  he  would  be  middle- 
aged,  rather  stout,  wear  gold  spectacles,  and  be  a  little 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      155 

bald.  Ha !  the  bell  rang  one  night,  and  in  skipped  a 
slender  figure  in  full  evening  dress,  lavender  kids,  and 
a  violet  in  his  button-hole ;  he  sank  down  w^ith  a  mix- 
ture of  timidity  and  vivacity  perfectly  overwhelming, 
on  the  tip  of  a  chair,  and  with  a  burst  of  infontile  laugh- 
ter said,  "  I  do  not  speak  any  Eenglis  but  a  leettle." 

This  was  Signor  L ,  and  we  had  hard  work  that 

first  night  to  keep  grave  faces.  Now  we  know  him 
very  well,  and  find  him  entertaining  and  clever ;  but  he 
has  still  the  same  infantile  way,  and  I  begin  to  doubt 
if  Italian  yoimg  men  ever  grow  up.  He  told  us  the 
other  day,  with  perfect  gravity  and  evident  sincerity, 
that  his  mother  "  would  not  permit  him  to  leap  in 
riding !  " 

But  I  forget  that  I  left  you  "  in  a  cellar."  In  this 
cellar,  too,  were  hidden  secrets;  it  was  the  old  bar- 
racks of  a  Roman  cohort  in  the  time  of  the  Emperors. 
In  the  court-yard  the  soldiers  had  lounged  and  scrib- 
bled on  the  walls.  There  they  were  still,  the  uncouth 
faces  and  figures  they  had  drawn ;  names  and  dates ; 
the  name  of  the  consul  at  that  time ;  and,  best  of  all, 
the  date  of  the  Emperor's  birthday ;  and  that,  Signor 
L said,  was  the  only  record  of  that  Emperor's  age. 

In  a  little  niche  on  one  side  were  figures  of  Mercury 
in  rough  fresco ;  this  was  a  little  chapel  dedicated  to 
his  worship.  In  the  middle  of  the  court-yard  was  a 
stone  rim  of  a  fountain,  star-shaped.  On  this  lay 
bits  of  all  sorts  of  old  marbles  which  had  been  dug  up 
in  the  different  rooms ;  and  the  gray-headed  man  laid 
his  photographs  on  them :  so  the  years  met ! 

I  am  quite  sure  that  we  were  the  only  Americans 

there,  except  Professor  G- .     Everybody  else  was 

as  British  as  British  could  be.  We  did  not  stay  long 
in  the  cellar,  of  which  I  was  glad,  for  it  was  colder 
than  any  place  ought  to  be  into  which  the  sun  shone.  I 
felt  as  if  ghostly  breaths  blew  on  us  from  every  corner. 
Then  we  climbed  up  the  stairs  again,  and  the  A.  S. 
which  drove  got  into  its  coaches,  and  the  A.  S.  which 


156 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


walked  took  to  its  very  strong  legs,  and  the  procession 
moved  off.  It  vi^as  a  little  like  a  funeral,  but  we  did 
not  drive  far ;  the  first  carriage  stopped,  and  then  all 
the  others  stopped,  and  the  gray-headed  man,  who 
had  on  a  cloak  with  a  pointed  hood  and  kept  the  hood 
over  his  head,  led  us  down  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber, 
to  what  looked  to  me  like  the  mouth  of  a  drain,  if  I 
might  be  so  bold.  I  gave  most  irreverent  inatttnition 
to  all  he  said  here;  I  gathered  only  that  he  believed 
that  the  priests  used  to  wash  their  knives  at  that  par- 
ticular spot.  I  did  n't  believe  it  for  all  that,  and  I 
looked  at  the  Tiber  while  he  talked.  "Yellow  Ti- 
ber "  sounds  well ;  Macaulay  never  could  have  got  on 
without  that  adjective  ;  but  it  is  such  a  license,  no  poet 
any  nearer  than  England  would  have  ventured  on  it. 
The  water  looks  just  like  the  water  in  the  puddles  in 
brickyards,  dirty,  thick,  dead,  drab ;  as  for  "  shaking 
its  tawny  mane,"  it  does  not  look  as  if  it  ever  stirred 
so  much  as  a  drop,  and  all  the  craft  that  are  on  it  look 
as  if  they  had  roots  like  pond-lilies  and  would  n't  come 
up.  They  are  all  tipped  a  little  to  one  side,  and  seem 
to  lean  on  the  banks,  and  I  don't  believe  one  has  been 
in  or  out  for  five  thousand  years.  I  have  looked  and 
looked  in  vain  to  see  even  a  little  boat  ni  motion  there ; 
and  the  longer  you  look,  the  thicker  and  the  stickier  the 
water  seems,  and  the  more  lifeless  and  useless  the  ships 
and  the  two  or  three  hulking  steamboats  look,  and  the 
more  real  and  intent  the  old  bits  of  stone  ruins  become, 
till  it  would  not  astonish  you  to  see  Julius  Caesar  him- 
self step  out  from  under  one  of  the  gray  lion's  heads 
and  knock  all  the  sham  of  modem  shipping  into  a 
cocked  hat,  before  you  could  say  Jack  Robinson.  Sure- 
ly it  takes  quite  a  long  time  to  say  Jack  Robinson  ;  so 
if  any  of  you  know  how  this  bit  of  slang  came  about, 
please  tell  me  when  you  write.  But,  I  forget !  you 
never  write;  so  it 's  no  use  asking  you  questions. 

Presently   I  found  that  the  A.  S.  was  moving  off 
again ;  dear  me,  they  did  look  as  if  they  knew  all 


ENCYCLICALS   OF  A    LRAl'ELLER.      j-- 

about  that  drain  (it  was  n't  the  Cloaca  Maxima  though, 
I  took  care  to  find  out  that  much)  ;  but  I  made  up  for 
not  having  attended  to  the  drain  when  we  reached  the 
Emporium.  This  really  did  thrill  my  insensible  soul ; 
here  were  the  old  wharves,  in  the  old  days,  and  here 
lay  the  blocks  of  marble  which  were  brought  and  un- 
loaded and  never  carried  away ;  who  knows  why  ? 
Like  pebbles  under  your  feet  were  strewn  bits  of  old 
red  pottery,  where  the  unlucky  or  the  thriftless  broke 
the  jars  in  which  had  come  oil  or  dates  to  be  sold. 
Ah,  this  was  really  worth  looking  at ! 

From  a  hole  in  the  side  of  the  bank  stuck  out  a  huge 
column  of  dark  marble,  only  half  unburied  ;  this  is  the 
largest  column  known  of  its  kind,  and  when  the  great 
council  meets  next  year,  they  are  to  set  it  up  on  some 
hill  in  Rome ;  then  the  A.  S.  said  the  other  end  of  the 
column  could  be  seen  by  going  into  another  hole,  far- 
ther back.  Why  we  all  wanted  to  see  the  other  end  of 
it,  Heaven  only  knows ;  but  we  all  ran  like  sheep ; 
hopped  up  and  down  over  the  great  blocks  of  marble, 
and  then,  when  we  got  to  the  hole,  only  one  could  go 
in  at  a  time,  and  nobody  could  see  anything  after  get- 
ting in.  This  seemed  to  make  everybody  more  anx- 
ious to  go  in  ;  and  when  you  saw  that  you  had  to  bend 
yourself  nearly  double,  and  poke  in  head  foremost 
down  a  slope,  with  every  chance  of  falling  on  your 
nose,  it  became  irresistible.  Everybody  said  breath- 
lessly to  those  coming  out,  "  Did  you  see  it  ?  "  and 
the  come-outers  said  deprecatingly,  "  Why  no,  I  can't 
say  I  did  exactly ;  it 's  pretty  dark."  And  so  we  all 
asked,  and  so  we  all  replied,  and  that  was  the  end  of 
that. 

Then  the  Baron  V arrived,  who  was  to  give 

some  explanations  of  these  ruins;  he  came  running, 
with  the  light  of  joy  on  his  old  face,  and  a  little  bit  of 
stone  in  a  white  paper,  which  he  showed  to  the  gray- 
headed  man  in  the  hooded  cloak;  and  they  both 
gloated ;  and  everybody  crowded  up  and  looked  over, 


I^g     ENCYCLICALS  Qf^  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  after  all  it  was  rather  worth  while.  A  bit  of  stone 
they  had  just  found,  yellow  jasper  from  Sicily ;  very, 
very  old,  and  very,  very  rare.  Then  the  Baron  put  it 
into  his  mouth  and  wet  it,  as  if  it  were  a  small  jewel, 
and  held  it  up  again,  rubbing  it  in  the  sun  to  bring  out 
the  colors.  And  then  the  British  A.  S.  stretched  up 
its  fifty  necks  to  see.  Then  the  Baron  began  to  talk, 
and  dear  me,  what  ^lould  it  be  but  French !  So  being 
of  an  ingenuous  and  just  turn,  I  slipped  off,  and  gave 
up  my  good  place  at  his  elbow  to  somebody  who  could 
understand  modern  French  on  the  subject  of  Roman 
ruins,  spoken  by  an  aged  Baron  without  many  teeth ; 
and  that  was  about  the  last  of  the  archaiological  ex- 
cursion. 

Then  L and  I  drove  home  by  way  of  the  Piazza 

Kavona,  where  are  more  oranges  and  apples  to  sell 
than  aU  Rome  could  ever  eat,  one  would  say.  The 
orange-stalls  dazzle  you  like  the  setting  sun's  light  on 
a  great  front  of  glass  windows,  on  a  hot  day.  We 
wanted  some  sour  apples ;  Romans  don't  know  what 
the  word  means ;  there  are  no  sour  apples  here ;  but 
there  are  some  which  are  just  not  sweet,  and  they  are 
better  than  nothing.  When  I  begin  to  stammer  out 
my  few  substantives  at  the  stalls,  the  men  and  women 
gather  round  and  laugh  so  good-naturedly,  that  I 
don't  mind  their  cheating  me,  which  of  course  they 
will  do  in  spite  of  all  I  can  say.  Once,  though,  I  did 
make  a  stand  with  a  little  black-eyed  rascal  who  sold 
oranges,  and  asked  me  two  soldi  apiece  for  them,  when 
I  had  that  very  morning  been  told  by  Marianina  that  I 
diould  give  but  one.  I  shook  my  head  and  said  "  Un 
soldo,  un  soldo."  How  he  did  asseverate  and  reiterate, 
and  at  last  said  a  soldo  and  a  half;  on  which  I  told  the 
driver  to  "  drive  on  "  ;  and  in  two  seconds  my  orange- 
boy  had  signalled  to  the  driver  to  stop,  and  was  pour- 
ing the  oranges  into  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  and 
laughing  just  as  roguishly  at  me  as  if  it  were  the  best 
joke  going  that  I  had  detected  him.     "  >Si,  si,  signora; 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER,      j-q 

un  soldo  !  "  Of  course  strict  morality  would  have  re- 
fused to  compound  felony  (or  whatever  they  may  call 
it,  to  encourage  dishonesty)  by  buying  oranges  of  such 
a  little  liar ;  but  I  only  laughed  as  hard  as  he  did,  and 
bought  two  dozen. 

'Hmrsday,  p.  m.  —  Now  something  better  than  ruins ; 
we  have  seen  the  lambs  blessed  at  the  church  of  St. 
Agnes.  Did  n't  somebody  who  did  n't  know  tell  us  it 
would  be  at  9  a.  m.  ?  and  as  the  church  is  outside  the 
walls,  did  n't  we  get  up  at  seven,  and  breakfast  shiver- 
ing at  eight,  and  see  icicles  in  the  fountain  in  the  Bar- 
berini  Piazza  as  we  drove  out  ?  However,  the  sun 
was  clear  and  bright,  and  the  mountains  looked  like 
clouded  sapphire  against  the  sky,  and  it  was  only  an 
hour  too  early. 

We  had  time  to  see  the  church  thoroughly  (it  is  a 
cellar,  by  the  way,  rather  cold  on  a  frosty  morning) 
and  get  good  seats,  before  the  mass  began;  I  have 
given  myself  papal  absolution  from  my  vow  never  to 
sit  through  another  high  mass ;  because,  you  see,  they 
are  so  wily  they  put  the  things  you  do  want  to  see 
after  these  tedious  masses  instead  of  before  them,  so 
you  have  to  sit  it  out.  The  crowd  grew  tremendous, 
and  began  to  push  and  scramble  long  before  the  lambs 
came.  Luckily  a  priest  had  moved  a  huge  Prie-Dieti 
just  in  front  of  us ;  so  we  were  sure  not  only  of  a  barri- 
cade, but  of  something  to  mount  upon  in  crises. 

At  last  came  the  servants  of  the  cardinal  with  their 
droll  long-bodied  coats  trimmed  all  over  with  uphol- 
stering gimp,  elbowing  a  passage  through  the  crowd  ; 
behind  them  two  men  in  uniform,  each  bearing  a  good- 
sized  lamb  on  a  red  damask  cushion,  its  eyes  tied,  its  head 
half  covered  with  red  and  white  and  green  flowers, 
and  bows  of  red  ribbon  stuck  here  and  there  in  the 
wool.  You  would  n't  have  thought  they  would  look 
pretty,  but  they  did ;  it  is  so  hard,  I  suppose,  to  spoil 
a  lamb !  But  what  they  did  to  the  lambs  after  they 
carried  them  behind  the  high  altar  I  don't  know,  we 


l6o     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

could  not  see ;  but  they  were  presently  brought  out 
again,  and  laid,  cushions  and  all,  under  the  great  mar- 
ble dome  over  the  altar,  and  at  the  feet  of  the  statue 
of  St.  Agnes  herself.  While  they  lay  there  the  cardi- 
nal and  the  priests  and  the  choir,  and  the  sackbuts  and 
the  dulcimers  and  the  fiddles,  were  all  chanting  and 
singing  and  going  on,  and  the  lambs  once  in  a  while 
said  "  Baa,  baa,"  which  was  the  only  thing  I  under- 
stood of  it  all,  and  produced  the  most  marked  sensation 
in  the  crowd. 

I  had  a  dear  little  Italian  boy  to  hold  up  on  the  top 
of  the  desk ;  and  when  the  lambs  baaed  he  laughed 
out,  and  his  nurse  from  behind,  who  had  consigned  him 
to  heretic  hands  with  about  equal  misgiving  and  grati- 
tude, reached  over  and  jerked  him  and  told  him  to  be 
still.  But  I  encouraged  him  to  laugh.  One  poor  little 
lamb  kept  lifting  up  its  head  and  shaking  the  flowers, 
and  the  man  who  held  it  pressed  its  head  down  again, 
till  you  could  hardly  see  that  it  had  a  head  at  all. 
Then  the  men  cleared  a  way  again  through  the  crowd, 
and  the  poor  little  creatures  were  carried  off;  and  good 
Catholics  pressed  up  to  touch  them,  as  they  were  car- 
ried by ;  and  then  we  came  away,  only  stopping  on  the 
staircase  to  try  to  read  some  of  the  odd  inscriptions 
from  the  tombs  of  the  early  Christians,  which  are  built 
into  the  walls,  —  the  inscriptions  I  mean,  not  the  early 
Christians.  This  sentence  is  about  as  good  as  one  in 
Murray  where  he  speaks  of  this  ceremony,  and  sa)'s 
that  the  lambs  "  are  afterwards  handed  over  to  the 
nuns  of  a  convent  in  Rome,  by  whom  they  are  raised 
for  their  wool,  which  is  employed  in  making  the  pal- 
liums  distributed  by  the  Pope  to  great  Church  digni- 
taries, and  their  mutton  eaten  1 "  It  is  true  about  the 
wool,  but  the  lambs  are  never  killed.  They  are  usually 
given  to  Roman  families,  and  kept  as  pets ;  an  English 
priest  told  me  so  to-ilay. 

We  are  luxuriating  now  in  clear  cold  weather ;  at 
least  I  am.     There  are  misguided  souls  (or  bodies)  that 


¥ 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     i6t 

like  the  warm  days ;  but  I  find  them  insupportably 
enervating.  As  for  the  sirocco,  when  that  blows  all 
hope  forsakes  a  person  of  nerves ;  you  feel  as  if  you 
were  a  thousand  needles,  assorted  sizes  1  Good  by  and 
good  by,  and  God  bless  you  all ! 


1 62     EA'CYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


Rome,  Monday,  February  15, 186? 

DEAR  PEOPLE :  Will  you  be  relieved,  I  wonder, 
or  appalled,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  decided 
not  to  try  to  send  you  more  than  seven  days  in  this 
letter !  Such  a  seven  days  as  it  was,  though ;  if  I 
could  only  have  photographed  the  seven  sunshines, 
each  bluer  and  whiter  and  yellower  than  the  one  before 
it!  Spring  is  spring  nowhere  but  here,  I  begin  to  sus- 
pect. No  matter  if  a  possible  fever  does  lurk  in  every 
golden  hour,  and  a  certain  weariness  and  lassitude  in 
every  whilf  of  the  hot  south-wind,  you  don't  care; 
you  glance  up  and  down  and  run  swiftly  into  the  sunny 
spots  with  no  more  care  than  the  lizards,  who  outstrip 
you,  do  your  best. 

Well,  it  is  to  be  a  week  that  you  are  to  spend  with 
me,  and  you  came  a  week  ago  last  Thursday  morning, 
February  4,  and  I  said,  "  Good,  you  are  just  in  time 
for  a  delightful  excursion  to  the  Palace  of  the  Cffisars, 
with  the  Archaeologicals,  this  afternoon,"  —  so  we  set  off, 

P and  I  in  a  little  low  carriage,  and  the  rest  of 

you  on  your  broomsticks  in  the  air,  as  you  always  go 
nowadays  with  me  everywhere.  When  we  got  to  the 
door  of  the  enclosure,  there  was  the  Archaeological 
Society  at  bay !  door  shut  I  the  old  gray  hat  of  John 
Henry  Parker  bobbing  up  and  down  above  its  worthy 
wearer's  excitement  and  indignation,  as  he  was  par- 
leying with  the  custode,  and  explaining  to  the  crowd 
of  Britishers  that,  owing  to  an  unfortunate  misunder- 
standing, we  could  not  go  in.  There  had  been  some 
mistake,  some  informality;  of  course  there  had,  and 
Mr.  Parker,  being  by  nature  a  blunderer,  had  made  it. 
Then  danced  up  the  gay  Signor  L with  his  violets  in 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


163 


his  button-hole,  and  his  little  cane, —  ineffable  mixture  of 
infant,  archaeologist,  and  Marble  Faun ;  and  he  chuckles 
in  his  broken  Enghsh  over  Mr.  Parker's  blunder,  and 
says,  "  0,  I  am  so  emused  to  see  such  many  people  so 
deesappointed ! "  we  laugh  till  we  are  ashamed,  and 
have  to  slink  behind  other  people  not  to  be  seen.  The 
crowd  is  quite  large,  fifty  or  sixty  people ;  —  some 
drive  off;  some  follow  Mr.  Parker,  who  dashes  across 
the  road,  past  the  Basilica  of  Constantine,  with  its 
three  grand  old  arches,  and  in  among  the  blocks 
of  everybody's  house,  and  everybody's  temple,  and 
everybody's  road,  all  lying  about  in  centuries  of  con- 
fusion, between  the  Basilica  and  the  Coliseum.  We 
saunter  along  after  them,  but  not  of  them,  and  finally 
sit  down  on  what  was  a  doorstep,  I  dare  say,  in  the 
days  when  Romulus  went  to  late  suppers ;  and  there 
we  talk,  and  knock  the  sacred  bits  of  marble  with  our 
parasols  and  canes,  just  as  if  we  had  hobnobbed  with 

ancients  all  our  lives.    At  last  Signor  L says,  "  This 

is  too  stoopeed ;  we  will  not  do  it  more  ;  let  us  go  into 
the  Coliseum."  So  he  shook  hands  with  Mr.  John 
Henry  Parker  as  respectfully  as  if  he  beheved  he  had 
not  been  in  the  least  to  blame  for  the  contretemps,  and 
off  we  went  into  the  Coliseum,  which  had  all  that 
while  seemed  to  be  beckoning  us  with  its  gray  arms. 
You  all  know  just  how  it  looks,  I  knew  that  before  I 
came  ;  but  how  it  feels,  that  is  something  which  don't 
photograph  !  —  the  unspeakable  quiet ;  the  dance  of 
lights  and  shade  in  and  out  of  the  arches;  the  dis- 
tance and  the  nearness  of  the  Gothic  spaces  of  sky,  set 
in  settings  of  stone,  and  looking  like  sapphire  gates  on 
which,  if  you  had  but  wings,  you  might  knock  and  find 
them  opening  to  you !  The  noise  of  the  city  comes 
in  muffled  and  dulled,  you  hardly  hear  it,  and,  if  you 
do,  you  can  hardly  remember  what  it  means ;  you  are 
more  tranquil  than  you  supposed  this  world  would  ever 
let  you  become.  I  have  wondered  if  one  could  not 
even  sit  still  under  one  of  those  arches  and  be  happily 


1 64     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  unconsciously  changed  into  ■wallflower  or  mosa, 
without  a  pang  of  death!  The  wallllowers  look  per- 
verse enough  to  have  been  the  result  of  some  such 
uncanny  spell  cast  over  human  beings;  they  hang  and 
wave  and  flaunt  everywhere  but  where  you  can  reach 
them,  —  great  blazes  of  yellow  darting  and  swaying  like 
fires  on  the  very  tops  of  the  most  inaccessible  places. 
By  and  by  there  will  be  more,  I  see,  lower  down ;  but 
at  first,  while  they  are  a  marvel,  in  these  early  days  of 
February,  they  are  only  in  spots  where  no  human  hand 
can  touch  them.  We  went  up  to  the  third  tier,  and 
out  through  one  of  the  openings,  and  sat  down;  my 
feet  were  in  a  fragrant  bush,  looking  and  smelling  like 
the  old-fashioned  "  southernwood "  in  country  gar- 
dens. Below  us,  the  mass  of  mingled  earth  and  ruin 
was  a  sharp  precipice ;  we  dared  not  look  over.  Just 
oji  the  edge,  a  smilax  vine  tauntingly  held  up  a  clus- 
ter of  claret  beads,  —  I  thought  them  seeds  ;  the  Ar- 
chaeologist said  they  were  buds,  and,  before  T  could  stop 
him,  had  picked  them,  to  prove  his  theory  true.  I  felt 
like  throwing  them  on  the  ground,  as  King  David  did 
the  water  for  which  a  Ufe  had  been  risked ;  instead  of 
that,  we  quarrelled  still  longer  over  them,  neither  of  us 
knowing  enough  to  prove  ourself  right,  and  when  I 
got  home  I  found  they  had  fallen  out  of  my  bouquet. 

Suddenly  we  heard  a  sound  of  chanting  below. 
There  was  a  procession,  gomg  from  shrme  to  shrine, 
kneehng  down  before  each  one,  and  chanting  their 
prayers ;  there  were  a  dozen  men  shrouded  from  head 
to  foot  in  coarse  brown  cloth,  like  linen,  —  only  two 
small  holes  left  for  the  eyes.  "  These  are  they  "  who 
beg  from  door  to  door,  shaking  a  little  tin  cup  on  every 
threshold,  speaking  no  word,  and  turning  away  almost 
instantly  if  nothing  is  given  them.  I  have  been  told 
tnat  they  are  many  of  them  noblemen  who  do  this,  — 
some  of  them  as  a  penance,  which  is  imposed  by  their 
confessor,  and  they  have  to  walk  the  streets  till  they 
have  got  a  certain  sum ;  some  of  them  belong  to  a 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      jg- 

fraternity  or  society,  and  are  pledged  to  do  this  so 
many  days  in  the  year.  They  are  uncanny  objects  to 
meet  in  the  street.  For  two  days  after  this  scene  in  the 
Cohseum  I  saw  them  repeatedly,  in  different  parts  of 
the  city ;  in  fact,  one  of  them  walked  by  my  side  one 
morning  as  I  was  going  to  my  Italian  lesson,  and  I  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  black  and  fiery,  and  his  feet  were 
white  and  finely  veined.  (Their  feet  are  bare,  with  only 
a  leather  sandal.)  A  monk  went  before  them,  with  a 
cross,  and  some  twenty  or  thirty  poor  people  had  joined 
the  procession.  They  all  fell  on  their  knees,  and  crossed 
themselves,  and  chanted  aloud  before  each  shrine.  One 
poor  man,  who  had  a  white  beard  fit  for  a  patriarch, 
carried  a  sort  of  square  board,  perhaps  some  relic ;  at 
the  end  of  each  prayer,  he  threw  himself  forward  full 
length  on  this  board,  face  down,  for  a  second,  and 
seemed  to  be  kissing  the  earth.  Meekly,  at  a  little 
distance,  followed  another  smaller  procession,  all  wo- 
men. A  nun  carrying  a  smaller  cr6ss,  a  few  sisters 
walking  on  each  side  of  her,  and  a  dozen  poor  women 
following ;  they  kept  in  the  rear,  and  knelt  at  a  re- 
spectful distance  from  the  monks  and  the  men,  but 
joined  in  all  the  prayers,  O,  you  can  have  no  con- 
ception of  the  wild  sense  of  yearning  tender  pity 
which  sweeps  over  you  sometimes  in  looking  on  such 
a  scene.  You  think  you  cannot  bear  it  one  minute 
longer !  You  must  spring  down  among  them  and  say, 
"  Poor  souls,  poor  souls,  this  is  nothing;  do  look  up, 
and  see  the  sun.''  I  watched  Signor  L— - — 's  face  while 
all  this  was  going  on,  but  I  could  not  fathom  his  ex- 
pression. I  could  see  nothing  beyond  a  sense  of  the 
picturesque  additions  which  the  veiled  figures  and  the 
chanting  and  the  high  black  crosses  made  to  our  view, 
as  we  looked  down  on  it  all  from  the  upper  chambers 
of  the  air ;  and  yet  he  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  —  so  good  a 
one  that  he  has  for  five  years  gone,  every  spring,  into 
a  convent  for  ei(jlit  day  a  of  entire  silence.  Think  of 
that !     Not  one  word  to  a  human  being  for  eight  days! 


l66     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

There  are  some  of  us  who  would  go  mad  on  the 
seventh,  if  not  sooner.  It  seemed  mahcious  in  the  sun 
to  hurry  down  on  this  particular  afternoon,  as  he  had 
not  hurried  on  the  day  before,  but  I  am  sure  he  set  an 
hour  earlier !  We  were  suddenly  frightened  by  seeing 
that  arch  after  arch  began  to  lie  in  shadow,  and  that 
Mount  Gennaro  was  turning  pink;  we  almost  ran 
down  the  stairs,  for  you  must  know  that  nobody  may 
see  sunsets  from  the  Coliseum.  As  for  that  matter,  it 
is  at  risk  of  your  life  you  see  them  anywhere  in  this 
land  of  malaria,  but  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Coli- 
seum it  is  worst  of  all ;  so  this  was  the  end  of  the  first 
of  our  seven  days,  dear  people. 

Then  came  the  Saturday  on  which  we  started  out 
early  for  the  Baths  of  Caracalla.  You  would  have  the 
Guide-Book  carried  along,  you  remember  ?  and  I  called 
up  to  you,  in  the  air,  as  we  drove,  that  you  might  read 
it  for  yourselves ;  that  I  would  not  be  tormented  with 
its  husks  of  information  ;  that  all  I  cared  to  know  about 
this  most  wonderful  ruin  was  that  it  was  begun  only 
two  hundred  years  after  Christ,  and  that  emperor  after 
emperor  kept  adding  and  improving  till  it  grew  to  be 
one  hundred  and  forty  thousand  square  yards  big,  and 
sixteen  hundred  people  could  bathe  there  at  once.  I 
don't  know  whether  the  historians  mention  about  tow- 
els !  perhaps  they  did  n't  mind  drying  off  in  the  sun !  If 
they  had  much  such  sun  as  this  Saturday's,  it  would 
have  been  easy  (and  perfect  bliss  besides).  There 
were  great  halls  for  exercises ;  great  round  rooms  big 
enough  for  churches,  where  a  thousand  or  so  took  a  va- 
por-bath if  they  liked.  Then  there  were  the  cold  rooms 
and  the  hot  rooms,  and  tfie  porticos,  and  the  tribunes  and 
the  galleries ,  and  the  walls  were  painted  and  the  floors 
were  mosaic,  and  everywhere  there  were  grand  statues,, 
so  that  the  naked  men  could  never  have  found  them- 
selves or  each  other  beautiful.  And  I  don't  suppose 
there  was  a  Roman  of  renown  for  five  centuries  who 
did  n't  have  his  turn  in  the  tubs !   That  was  the  way 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      167 

it  began,  but  now  you  see  it  is  quite  another  sort  of 
affair.  You  cannot  follow  out  the  plan  of  it,  even  if  you 
keep  Murray's  map  under  your  nose  every  step  of  the 
way,  and  break  your  shins,  in  consequence,  over  the 
great  clutter  of  old  stones  lying  about  you  everywhere ; 
so  presently  you  reflect  that  it  does  n't  make  the  least 
difierence  to  you  which  room  was  the  "  Cella  Frigi- 
daria,"  and  which  the  "  Cella  Calidaria  " ;  and  as  soon  as 
you  settle  that,  you  can  be  happy.  Then  you  can 
wander  through  great-walled  square  after  square,  and 
see  on  which  floor  there  are  most  daisies ;  they  are  hke 
fields  now,  —  what  were  the  old  floors,  —  thick  grass, 
ivies,  vines,  thistles.  (Ah,  the  beauty  of  a  Eoman 
thistle !  Some  day  I  '11  try  to  tell  you  just  how  they 
look ;  they  are  almost  the  most  beautiful  of  the  road- 
side things  here.)  All  about  you  are  these  jagged  bro- 
ken walls,  which  look  as  if  they  might  topple  over  any 
minute  ;  where  Avindows  used  to  be  are  irregular  great 
gaps,  with  vines  growing  in  them;  and  presently,  as  you 
get  used  to  looking  up  higher  and  higher,  till  you  see 
the  tops  of  the  walls,  you  see  what  seems  to  be  another 
earth,  midway  between  you  and  the  sky,  and  there 
are  small  trees  growing,  and  vines  and  bushes  hanging 
over  the  edges  and  reaching  down  to  meet  their 
kindred  who  are  climbing  up  from  below.  Then  it 
first  dawns  upon  you  what  gigantic  ruins  these  are, 
and  by  that  time  the  custode  knows  you  are  quite 
ready  to  scramble  up  to  the  top ;  so  he  comes  along 
with  his  key  and  unlocks  a  door  in  the  wall,  and 
there  in  the  wall  is  built  a  narrow  ladder  of  a  stair- 
case, up  and  up  and  up  which  you  go,  and  when  you 
come  out  at  top  you  find  that  the  "  other  earth," 
whose  fringes  you  had  seen  hanging  over,  is  a 
magic  wild  garden,  on  the  tops  of  the  old  walls, 
with  here  and  there  a  bit  of  what  was  roof  in 
Caesar's  day,  but  is  now  more  solid  ground  than  the 
rest.  Then  you  sit  down  on  the  safest-looking  spot 
you  can  find,  and  lean  up  against  a  great  stone,  and 


1 68     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

think  you  will  never  go  away.  You  dare  not  look 
over ;  too  dizzy  by  half:  I  did  wish  I  knew  how  high 
these  walls  were,  but  of  course  that  was  n't "  put  down" 
in  Murray.  T'he  few  rare  bits  of  knowledge  that  I  do 
hanker  after  never  are  in  that  unpleasant  red  book. 
But  I  can  tell  you  a  little  by  this ;  looking  over  into 
the, great  chamber  where  I  had  been  picking  daisies, 
I  could  see  no  daisies,  only  dark,  still,  solemn  green.  In 
another  room  men  were  at  work  digging  down,  down, 
for  what  they  might  find ;  they  had  struck  the  floor,  but 
from  our  height  it  looked  like  a  shapeless  dark  hole,  and 
the  men  looked  like  children. 

Here  too  were  the  yellow  wallflowers,  setting  their 
torches  where  only  the  wind  could  reach  them.  0  the 
cruel  lure  of  a  flower  you  cannot  possibly  touch  !  I  shall 
remember  some  of  these  wallflowers  as  long  as  I  live ; 
and  those  I  pick  I  shall  forget,  I  suppose,  though  I 
nurture  them  tenderly  for  many  days  in  my  room. 

We  were  so  blessed  in  the  day  we  took  to  see  these 
ruins,  that  we  were  absolutely  alone  there :  only  one 
stufiy  old  Englishman  came,  and  he  did  not  stay ;  he 
wheezed  up  the  staircase,  and  almost  as  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  us  he  went  down,  looking  frightened  to 
death  at  the  thought  of  two  independent  American 
women  sitting  with  no  hats  on  their  heads,  alone,  on 
the  top  of  the  walls  of  the  Baths  of  Caracalla  I 

But  I  nearly  forgot  to  say  that  besides  the  wonder- 
fulness  of  being  on  the  top  of  these  walls,  and  scram- 
bling about  dizzily  on  the  brink  of  jagged  unroofed 
chambers,  where  such  thickets  of  laurestinus  and  myrtle 
and  all  other  green-leaved  things  that  grow  so  hide 
the  real  edge  that  you  feel  as  if  the  tiny  brown  path 
before  you  might  be  an  illusion  and  a  snare,  and  the 
next  step  would  be  your  last;  besides  all  this,  you  look 
off  over  all  Rome,  and  all  the  wonderful  hills  which 
encircle  the  plain,  —  hills  so  unlike  any  others  I  have 
ever  seen  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  describe  them. 
It  is  not  their  height,  —  they  swe  not  very  high  ;  it  is  not 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


169 


their  shape,  —  their  outlines  are  not  unique ;  and  per- 
haps I  have  seen  other  hills  as  pink  and  purple  and  gray 
and  blue ;  but  their  beauty  is  like  a  subtle  beauty  in  some 
faces,  which  cannot  vindicate  its  claim  by  a  feature  or 
a  tint,  but  which  ravishes  you,  and  holds  you  forever  I 
The  artists  say  it  is  atmosphere.  There  is  an  atmos- 
phere to  faces  too  ;  so  I  think  perhaps  there  can  be  no 
better  word  for  it  than  that. 

Now  have  I  given  you  a  shadow  of  an  idea  of  what 
it  is  like  to  roam  about  for  four  hours  in  and  on  the 
Baths  of  Caracalla  ?  I  am  afraid  I  have  not ;  and  what 
is  still  more  stupid  of  me,  I  skipped  over  from  Thurs- 
day to  Saturday,  and  never  let  you  stir  out  of  the  house 
on  Friday,  which  was  the  day  for  the  Villa  Pamfili 
Doria ;  and  there  we  went  and  saw  the  whole  of  it, 
and  picked  anemones, — yes,  purple  and  white  anemo~ 
nes  and  painted  crocuses  on  the  5th  of  February. 

The  word  "  villa  "  I  have  always  had  an  unreasoning 
dishke  lor,  and  I  went  one  cold,  raw  day  last  month 
to  the  Villa  Borghese,  and  increased  my  dislike.  It 
seemed  to  me  more  dismal  than  a  cellar,  and  more  set 
and  Hfeless  than  a  checker-board ;  and  as  for  the  damp 
chill  there  was  under  the  trees  on  that  day,  I  have  no 
words  to  express  it.  So  even  in  the  sun  of  this  Friday 
I  set  out  for  the  Villa  Pamfili  Doria  with  no  great  glow 
of  expectation.  Now  I  must  tell  you  that,  by  Murray, 
the  grounds  are  four  miles  in  extent,  and  that  it  was 
ffiven  by  a  pope  to  his  sister-in-law  more  than  two 
hundred  years  ago,  so  that  they  have  had  time  as  well 
as  roon.  to  make  a  comfortable  home  of  it ;  and  having 
told  you  this,  we  will  begin  at  the  gate,  —  a  huge  and 
high  gate  with  three  entrances,  statues  on  the  top  and 
in  niches ;  then  a  broad,  smooth  road,  —  broad  enough 
for  three  carriages  abreast,  and  on  each  side  smooth 
greensward  half  white  with  daisies,  —  you  can't  think 
how  daisies  cuddle  in  the  grass,  where  they  have  it  all 
their  own  way  all  the  year  round ;  then  another  gate, 
less  high,  with  one  entrance ;  at  the  side  stands  a  ser- 
8 


170     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

vant  of  the  Pamfili  Doria,  in  a  long  blue  coat,  down  to 
his  heels,  and  trimmed  with  what  looks  like  chintz 
trimming  on  the  collar  and  sleeves  and  pocket-flaps. 
He  takes  off  his  hat  to  everybody  that  comes  in,  and 
looks  as  proud  as  if  he  represented  the  hospitality  of 
long  lines  of  Dorias.  It  is  really  a  prmcely  thing  to 
do,  to  throw  open  such  a  place  as  this,  to  the  whole 
swarming  public,  two  days  of  every  week,  and  let 
them  eat  oranges,  if  they  choose,  under  the  trees,  and 
pick  all  the  wild  flowers  they  can.  On  each  side 
of  the  road  are  century-plants,  seven  and  eight  feet 
high,  —  grandest  things  for  a  wall ;  behind  them 
great  towers  of  something  whose  name  I  don't  know, 
—  a  sort  of  tall  grass  witli  soft  tassels  or  plumes 
that  stand  up  eight  feet  high  instead  of  falling  over, 
but  look  as  light  and  airy  as  if  they  drooped.  Presently 
the  house  appears  on  the  right,  —  big,  and  quite  ugly. 
I  think  nobody  can  look  at  it  much ;  yellow  and  white 
in  panels  and  patches;  statues,  in  niches,  of  all  the 
things  in  the  Book  of  Ezekiel,  I  think,  —  but  Mur- 
ray does  not  mention.  Past  this,  and  you  are  in  shade 
of  a  great  avenue  of  evergreen  oaks.  It  would  be 
just  as  easy  to  believe  that  Adam  set  them  out  as  that 
Innocent  X.  did,  only  two  hundred  years  ago.  Then 
the  road  winds  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down ;  there 
are  groves,  wild  tangles  of  bushes  on  sides  of  hills, 
paths  that  lead  nowhere,  ravines,  meadows,  swamps 
which  have  not  been  touched,  and  swamps  which  are 
made  into  ponds,  and  on  which  swans  sail  towards 
the  road  at  sound  of  wheels.  From  all  the  higher 
parts  of  the  road  are  exquisite  glimpses  of  Rome,  of 
the  Alban  Hills,  —  which  are  always  blue  when  the  sun 
shines,  and  which  have  white  villages  set  like  white 
stones  along  their  sides ;  these  glimpses  are  most  beau- 
tiful, when  they  struggle  through  among  the  stone- 
pines.  There  are  no  such  stone-pines  here  as  those  at 
this  Villa,  and  there  cannot  be  anywhere  a  tree  more 
beautiful  than  the  stone-pine ;  no  wonder  Theodore 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     171 

Parker,  when  he  saw  them,  said,  "  Let  one  be  set  ovei 
my  grave."  A  stem  straight  as  a  mast,  up,  up,  into 
the  air ;  then  a  sudden  outstretching  of  fairy-hke  fin- 
gers and  arms  which  hold  up  a  canopy  of  the  darkest 
and  vividest  green ;  —  a  great  platform  it  becomes  in 
some  of  them,  from  which  another  magic  company  of 
slender  fingers  holds  up  a  second  and  then  a  third  or 
fourth  canopy.  So  slender  are  these  arms,  that  from  a 
great  distance  you  do  not  see  them,  only  the  soft,  dark, 
mysterious  canopies  against  the  sky,  and  below,  the 
one  shaft  which  rests  in  the  ground ;  that  is  a  stone- 
pine  !  Closer,  you  see  that  the  needles  are  set  thick 
and  firm  on  the  stems,  and  point  up ;  and  that  they  are 
like  our  soft-pines  at  home,  only  suddenly  seized  with  a 
heavenward  purpose.  So,  like  all  other  things  witb 
heavenward  purposes,  they  make  themselves  seen 
everywhere,  and  everybody  soon  learns  their  places. 

There  is  one  stone-pine,  all  alone,  on  Mount  Mario. 
Years  ago,  some  Englishman  paid  a  large  sum  of  money 
to  have  it  left  there  undisturbed  forever.  In  every 
view  of  Rome  stands  out  that  one  stone-pine.  You 
remember  I  told  you  we  had  one  grand  one  in  full 
sight  from  our  parlor  windows ;  the  Barberini  Palace 
stands  in  line  with  it,  and  seems  so  much  less  a  thing ! 
I  shall  see  the  pine  always,  but  I  can't  even  remember 
now  exactly  how  the  palace  looks.  All  this  in  paren- 
thesis !  Dear  me  !  shall  I  ever  send  you  seven  days  at 
once? 

"When  I  first  saw  the  open  meadow  on  the  right 
hand  of  this  broad  road,  where  I  left  you  a  page  back, 
it  was  dotted  here  and  there  with  bright  spots  of  pur- 
ple, so  bright  they  'ooked  almost  like  red.  "  0,  what  are 
they  ?  what  are  they  ?  "  said  I.     "  Only  anemones,"  said 

S ,  quietly.     How  soon  I  knelt  at  the  feet  of  one! 

I  have  it  yet,  —  my  first  Italian  anemone.  It  was  not 
unlike  an  ox-eye  daisy  in  shape,  but  vivid  purple,  and 
the  petals  were  larger.  Then  I  found  two  other  kinds,  — 
one  white,  and  one  pale  yellow,  —  next,  a  pair  ted  crocus, 


172      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  then  there  was  no  time  to  look  for  more,  for  the 
sun  was  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  middle  sky,  and 
there  were  yet  more  than  two  miles  to  go  in  these  won- 
derful pleasure-grounds.  Everybody  was  there:  sev- 
eral sets  of  Catholic  boys  with  their  priests  at  their 
heads ;  some  in  long  scarlet  gowns,  some  in  black  with 
stove-pipe  hats.  These  last  were  really  running  and 
playing,  and  it  looked  about  as  droll  as  it  would  to  see 
the  Judges  of  the  Supreme  Court  kicking  up  their 
heels  1  The  red  ones  wound  about  among  the  trees, 
ftnd  shot  out  their  glean;s  of  color  at  unexpected  places, 
8o  brilliantly  that  I  was  very  glad  they  had  all  joined 
that  particular  shade  of  Catholicism  if  they  could  n't 
be  Protestants  !  There  was  a  farm-house  with  a  tiled 
roof,  and  sheds  in  a  good  deal  of  disorder,  and  a  barn 
full  of  hay,  all  of  which  we  saw,  because  the  barn  was 
only  a  roof  on  eight  stone  pillars,  and  the  hay  all  bul- 
ging out  for  its  own  wall !  This  was  so  picturesque 
that  you  could  not  help  suspecting  it  of  having  been 
done  on  purpose,  instead  of  because  the  climate  is  so 
mild.  Then  there  was  a  garden,  —  a  perfect  specimen, 
they  say,  of  the  ideal  Italian  garden,  — a  flat  square,  laid 
out  in  the  most  absurd  little  shapes  and  strips,  edged 
with  green.  They  looked  like  the  first  pages  in  Euclid, 
or  still  more  like  a  cook's  table  after  the  doughnuts 
have  been  all  cut  out,  and  the  corners  and  bits  of  the 
dough  left.  How  I  laughed  I  It  was  the  most  ridicu- 
lous thing  for  a  thing  that  meant  to  be  fine !  I  can't 
imagine  anything  but  small  caricature  puppets  of 
flowers  growing  in  it.  This  is  the  only  thing  in  the 
grounds  of  the  Pamfili  Doria  Villa  which  is  not  en- 
chantingly  beautiful !  But  I  must  not  say  another  word 
about  this  Villa,  except  that,  besides  all  I  have  told 
you,  it  has  old  tombs  and  columbaria,  and  fountains 
and  greenhouses,  and  a  little  church,  and  a  little  monu- 
mental temple  to  the  French  soldiers  killed  in  1849, 
and  a  casino,  and  more  violets  than  there  are  in  all  the 
rest  of  Rome  put  together  i    And  here  endeth  Friday. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


173 


On  Sunday  we  went  to  church  at  San  Pietro  in 
Montorio.  We  did  n't  hear  much  of  a  sermon,  to  be 
sure,  nor  stay  through  the  services,  because  the  church 
was  very  cold.  But  we  made  up  for  it  by  going  into 
the  cloister  of  the  convent  adjoining,  and  going  into 
the  little  temple  which  somebody  built  over  the  very 
spot  on  which  Peter  was  crucified.  You  don't  doubt 
about  that  spot,  do  you  ?  What  is  the  use  ?  and  then 
wait  till  you  hear  the  circumstantial  evidence,  i.  e.,  we 
saw  the  very  hole  in  which  the  cross  rested !  What 
more  could  one  have  !  It  is  in  a  crypt  (that  is  Roman 
Catholic  short  for  a  dark,  damp  cellar)  under  the  tem- 
ple, and  there  is  an  iron  grating  over  the  hole,  and  a 
sacred  lamp  perpetually  burning  in  it.  The  old  monk 
who  showed  us  in  had  a  long  stick,  hollow  at  one  end, 
which  he  poked  down  and  twisted  round  and  round  a 
few  times  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole,  and  brought  it  up 
full  of  sacred  earth,  and  then  held  it  out  to  me,  just  as 
butter-men  hold  out  to  you  the  samples  of  their  butter 
from  the  bottom  of  the  tub.  I  realized  afterwards 
that  I  ought  to  have  taken  the  earth  and  carried  it 
away  as  a  relic ;  but  I  only  stared  at  it  and  him  and 
said  nothing,  and  he  put  it  back  again  with  a  sigh. 
However,  he  liked  our  franc  just  as  well  as  if  we  had 
been  Christians. 

The  cloister  was  the  most  shut-up  spot  I  ever  saw : 
high  walls,  brick  and  stone  pavement ;  only  the  sky  for 
relief,  and  that  looked  so  far  off  it  would  very  soon 
have  discouraged  you  more  than  it  would  have  com- 
forted you,  if  you  had  been  shut  up  there ;  in  the  mid- 
dle, the  cold,  white,  still,  round  temple  with  a  dome, 
and  a  row  of  gray  pillars  around  it.  I  thought  it  very 
beautiful,  and  was  quite  surprised  to  find  it  one  of  the 
things  set  down  in  Murray  as  proper  to  be  admired. 
A  few  little  weeds  were  struggling  up  between  the 
stones  in  this  cloister,  and  I  thought  if  we  did  not 
escape  pretty  soon  I  should  find  my  Picciola.  The 
poor  monk  looked  wistfully  after  us  as  he  let  us  out 


174 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  FELLER. 


I  suppose  he  goes  out  too  when  he  likes,  but  that  can't 
make  much  difference  if  you  know  you  must  go  back 
at  night.  0,  I  long  to  get  out  of  hearing  of  the  clank 
of  these  chains ! 

This  church  and  convent  stand  on  the  top  of  one  of 
the  highest  hills ;  behind  the  church,  a  few  rods  farther  on 
the  road,  is  the  fountain  Paolina,  —  such  an  ugly  thing ; 
all  but  the  water,  which  is  beautiful  and  makes  you 
leap  about  to  look  at  it,  —  three  great  streams  rushing 
out  of  a  wall  into  a  semicircular  basin ;  while  the  wall 
and  the  basin  and  every  head  and  corner  and  post  are 
so  ugly,  it  only  shows  what  water  is,  that  it  can  be 
so  beautiful  in  spite  of  them.  Some  pope  —  a  Paul,  I 
suppose — made  the  fountain  more  than  two  hundred 
years  ago ;  that  is  quite  modern  here,  in  fact,  a  mere 
thing  of  yesterday.  The  water  comes  all  the  way  from 
the  lake  of  Bracciano,  and  after  this  one  brief  minute 
of  jollity  and  beauty  plunges  down  into  the  city,  and 
does  —  what  do  you  think  ?  —  turns  all  the  flour-mills ! 
How  it  must  chafe  when  it  remembers  its  frolic  in 
the  pope's  fountain,  to  which  it  can  never,  never  get 
back! 

From  the  plateau  in  front  of  this  fountain,  and  in 
front  of  the  church,  is  a  grand  view  of  Rome,  —  the  en- 
tire campagna  and  the  mountains.  It  was  so  warn 
that  we  sat  down  on  the  grass  and  looked  and  looked 
The  gay  Roman  people  were  flocking  up  and  down, 
keeping  their  out-of-doors  Sunday.  Poor  souls,  it  is 
no  wonder  this  becomes  part  of  their  religion  !  Three 
women  sat  in  a  group  by  the  roadside,  with  huge  piles 
of  some  sort  of  salad,  which  they  were  getting  ready 
for  market.  They  ate  almost  more  than  they  put  into 
the  basket;  munch,  munch,  munch,  —  away  they  ate 
and  talked,  and  talked  and  ate,  and  laughed,  as  if  clear, 
cold,  raw  spinach  were  the  most  delicious  thing  in  the 
world.  Before  we  went  home,  we  took  a  turn  in  the 
Coliseum,  which  Avas  sunny,  and  liad  more  flowers  in  it 
than  on  Friday ;  from  the  topmost  pinnacle  they  brought 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


175 


down  asphodel  to  me,  and  when  I  saw  that,  I  was  sorry 
I  had  been  so  unsocial  as  to  choose  sitting  alone  in  my 
old  arch,  with  my  feet  in  the  southernwood  bush,  rather 
than  climbing  up  with  them.  And  here  is  the  end  of 
the  fourth  lesson. 

Now  Monday  can  be  told  in  few  words,  because  it 
is  only  the  Villa  Pamfili  Doria  over  again.  We  went 
early  and  we  stayed  so  late  that  we  were  half  sure  we 
should  wake  up  with  fever  the  next  morning ;  and  all 
that  time  we  were  picking  anemones  and  lovely  green 
things  to  make  into  bouquets  to  throw  at  the  Carnival 
on  Tuesday.  Yes,  absolutely  to  throw  anemones  at 
the  Carnival !  Now  that  it  is  over,  I  see  that  it  par- 
took of  the  nature  of  sacrilege,  but  at  the  time  it 
seemed  to  me  wise  and  good.  0,  such  a  basketful  as 
I  brought  home !  and  the  next  morning  I  spent  two 
hours  and  a  half  tying  them  up  into  lovely  wild-looking 
bunches ;  snowdrops  mixed  with  them,  and  great  ivy- 
leaves  set  round  like  a  bouquet-holder.  I  felt  afraid  I 
liad  left  no  anemones  for  anybody  else,  and  thought  I 
had  enough  to  make  at  least  a  dozen  bouquets,  and, 
after  all,  I  had  only  seven !  Then  I  had  a  basket  full 
of  other  flowers,  and  I  had  a  white  cape  trimmed  with 

purple,  and  a  fine  wire  mask,  —  and  L had  a  white 

cape  trimmed  with  blue,  and  a  wire  mask,  and  a  big 
basket  of  flowers ;  and  Tuesday  afternoon  we  set  out 
with  Marianina,  our  beautiful  little  serving-maid,  bright 
and  early,  after  lunch,   for  the  Carnival.      You  must 

know  that  all  this  week  Miss  S and  I  had  been  the 

owners  of  half  a  balcony  on  the  Corso,  and  L had 

been  the  owner  of  a  seat  in  a  fine  balcony  with  other 
friends,  and  yet  we  had  been  only  twice  to  look  on, 
and  found  the  whole  thing  so  stupid,  and  the  horse-race 
so  cruel,  that  we  did  not  care  to  go  again.  But  at  the 
last  minute  I  was  seized  with  a  sudden  desire  to  enter 
into  it  wildly  for  an  hour  or  two  on  the  last  day,  and 
see  if  I  could  by  clear,  sheer  force  of  will  compel  my- 
self to  be  amused !      Would  you  believe  it  ?   m  less 


176     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

than  ten  minutes  after  I  took  my  stand  on  that  balcony, 
and  spread  my  flowers  out  before  me,  and  began  to 
pelt  people,  I  was  just  as  excited  as  if  I  had  been  the 
granddaughter  of  Julius  CaBsar  hmiself !  I  hit  every- 
body I  aimed  at,  and  I  caught  every  bouquet  that  was 
thrown  at  me,  and  I  worked  for  three  hours  harder 
tlian  I  ever  worked  anywhere  except  in  Dio  Lewis's 
gymnasium  I  It  sounds  silly.  I  am  half  ashamed  to  tell 
of  it,  except  that  it  would  be  a  pity  not  to  let  you  have 
the  laugh  at  me,  and  you  can't  laugh  harder  than  I 
do  to  think  of  it ;  for  a  woman  of —  well,  of  my  age  ! 
to  be  heartily  amused  for  two  solid  hours  throwing 
bouquets  to  a  crowd,  and  bemg  pelted  back  by  bou- 
quets and  sugar-plums !  it  sounds  like  a  sharp,  short 
attack  of  being  crazy.  But  I  did  it.  Some  of  the 
bonbons  were  very  pretty,  but  I  threw  them  all  down 
again  to  other  people.  My  anemones,  though,  I  did  not 
shower  down  promiscuously,  you  may  be  very  sure*, 
our  balcony  was  low  enough  for  us  to  see  the  faces  of 
the  people  perfectly,  and  I  threw  anemones  to  none 
excepting  those  who  looked  as  if  they  knew  the  differ- 
ence between  anemones  and  miserable  bought  flowers 
on  wires.  Then,  when  it  grew  dark,  everybody  lit 
candles,  and  we  had  a  few  minutes'  fun  with  those. 
The  people  from  below  threw  bouquets  and  hit  thera 
and  put  them  out,  and  the  people  from  above  knocked 
them  out  of  your  hands,  and  the  people  from  the  next 
balcony  switched  them  out  with  their  handkerchiefs  j 
and  everybody  screamed  out,  "  Senza  moccoli,  senza 
moccoli,"  and  as  you  looked  up  and  down  the  Corso, 
the  dancing  lights  were  like  a  shower  of  stars  blown 
about  in  the  wind.  But  this  lasted  only  a  little  while, 
and  few  people  in  the  street  had  candles ;  so  that  it 
was  quite  unlike  what  it  used  to  be  in  old  times.  In 
fact,  the  whole  thing  from  begmning  to  end  has  been 
no  carnival  at  all,  they  say.  The  Romans  do  not 
choose  to  be  amused  any  longer.  There  are  too  many 
sous  in  prison,  too  many  waiting  for  one  more  chance 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     177 

to  fight ;    a  hairdresser  said  to  L one  night  in  a 

half-frightened  whisper,  when  she  asked  him  why  the 
Romans  did  not  give  themselves  up  to  the  Carnival  as 
they  used,  "  The  whole  city  is  in  anger,  miss  !  "  Even 
in  the  little  contact  which  we  have  with  the  Romans 
we  see  smoulderings  of  the  fire.  I  can't  help  wish- 
ing they  would  wait  till  this  mild,  gentle,  good  old 
Pius  is  peacefully  put  away  under  (or  in)  his  sarcopha- 
gus. He  cannot  live  long ;  I  do  not  want  him  to  be 
disturbed.  After  that,  I  could  stay  and  fight  myself  to 
set  this  poor  people  free. 

Well,  that  was  the  end  of  the  Carnival ;  we  left  a 
dozen  great  bouquets  in  our  balcony,  and  Marianina 
lugged  home  a  few  of  the  best  ones  which  I  thought 
might  possibly  do  to  take  to  pieces  in  the  morning, 
and  rearrange.  Alas  !  in  the  morning  the  poor  things 
showed  what  they  had  been  through.  The  history  of 
one  bouquet  through  an  afternoon  of  the  Carnival 
would  be  a  strange  record.  I  do  not  doubt  that  some- 
times the  same  bouquet  goes  through  thousands  of 
hands.  Some  of  them  had  live  canaries  tied  on  them. 
That  seemed  to  me  even  more  cruel  than  the  goading 
the  poor  horses  for  the  race,  which  is  a  bit  of  cruelty 
of  lineal  descent  from  the  days  of  the  Gladiators. 

Now  I  have  made  these  days  so  long,  that  of  the 
next  one  1  can  tell  you  nothing,  except  that  it  was 
just  as  sunshiny  and  warm  as  the  rest,  and  we  went 
to  another  villa,  —  the  Villa  Wolkonsky.  Here  are  old 
Roman  aqueducts,  covered  with  ivies  whose  stems  are 
larger  than  my  wrist,  and  which  branch  and  spread 
like  trees !  And  here  is  an  old  tomb,  which  in  the 
time  of  Nero  one  Mr.  Cladius  built  for  himself  in  a 
fine,  conspicuous  situation,  as  he  supposed,  and  put  his 
family  names  on  the  front;  but  now  his  tomb  door  is 
many  feet  underground,  and  the  curious  few  go  down 
into  his  tomb,  and  tumble  about  the  bones  of  his  kin- 
dred as  much  as  they  like.  A  Russian  princess  owns 
this  villa,  but  has  not  Uved  in  it  for  five  years ;  so  in 
8*  I. 


lyS 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


what  is  she  better,  said  we,  than  American  princesses 
who  own  no  villa? 

What  do  you  think  of  this  for  a  week  ?  We  don't 
live  quite  so  fust  every  week,  but  then  we  might,  if 
it  never  rained.,  and  if  we  were  never  tired;  so  the 
Roman  calendai  becomes,  you  see,  quite  another  thing 
when  you  couni.  the  days  in  Rome.  In  spite  of  it  all, 
however,  I  am  liankering  after  a  hill  country  with  only 
its  own  legitimate  dead  about !  Not  that  I  mean  to  re- 
flect on  the  fami  'y  records  of  the  Ciesars  and  Antonines ; 
but  I  think  it  cl^okes  the  air  a  little  too  much  to  dig 
down  into  so  many  layers  of  sepulchre.  Sufficient 
unto  a  century  is  the  dead  thereof.  I  shall  like  Switzer- 
land better  than  Rome,  and  I  shall  say  a  new  kind  of 
prayer  at  night  when  I  get  into  a  country  where  I  can 
go  to  bed  once  more  with  my  window  wide  open. 

Good  by  now,  dear  souls,  one  and  all.  Tell  me  all 
the  smallest  things  you  do,  and  keep  a  little  green  spot 
in  your  every-day  hearts  for  me. 


ENCYCLICALS   OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


179 


Rome,  March  15, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE:  I  have  been  to  an  exhibition 
of  delegates  from  Babel.  Don't  think  this  is  a 
figure  of  speech,  it  is  naked  truth ;  the  other  name  for 
it,  though,  IS  the  Exhibition  of  the  College  of  the  Pro- 
paganda. 

O  the  wily  wisdom  of  this  Romish  Church  I  the  fine- 
ness of  the  web  they  spin  1  Nothing  ever  showed  it  to 
me  like  these  thirty  tongues,  —  Hindostanee  and  several 
other  dialects  of  India,  Arabic,  Greek,  Persian,  He- 
brew, Chaldaic,  Syriac,  Armenian,  Curdo,  Telegunese, 
Canarese,  Coptic,  Latin,  French,  Celtic,  Danish,  Illyri- 
an,  Bulgarian,  Albanian,  and  I  don't  know  how  many 
more.  But  first  I  will  tell  you  how  we  got  there,  and 
I  might  as  well  say  here,  that  about  this  price  has 
to  be  paid  for  everything  you  see  and  hear  in  this  city. 
The  exercises  were  to  begin  at  half  past  two ,  we  ar- 
rived at  the  door  at  quarter  past  one.  Already  a  few 
determined  spirits  had  taken  their  stand  close  to  the 
great  padded  curtain  to  make  sure  of  being  first  in. 
Soon  there  was  a  solid  phalanx  that  could  have  bat- 
tered the  door  down  if  they  had  gone  at  it  head  fore- 
most. I  never  saw  the  water  let  on  at  a  dam ;  but  I 
have  seen  women  let  in  at  these  Romish  doors,  and  it 
must  be  pretty  much  the  same  thing.  Perhaps  you 
think  you  are  a  free  agent  in  such  a  crowd ;  anything 
but  that;  you  feel  as  if  you  were  nothing  but  one 
great  elbow  that  somebody  else  shoved  with!  Each 
time  I  think  I  will  never  go  again,  but  you  can't  stay 
away. 

It  was  a  very  narrow  passage-way  into  which  we 
were  let  by  the  opening  of  the  first  door  this  day. 


J  go     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

Were  we  free  now  ?  0  no,  by  no  means  ;  at  the 
other  end  of  this  passage  another  door.  In  it  one  of 
the  Swiss  Guards,  red  and  yellow  and  big  with  his 
towering  plume  past  him  but  two  could  go  at  once ; 
first  come,  first  served.  Then  such  pushing  I  such 
elbowing !  disagreeable,  insufferable,  only  that  you 
have  to  suffer  it ;  and  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  up 
comes  one  of  the  authorities,  and  drags  through,  by 
main  force,  two  women  who  were  at  the  rear  end  of 
the  crowd,  came  late,  and  had  no  sort  of  right  to  a  seat 
at  all:  women  at  the  front  remonstrate;  man  coolly 
says,  "If  you  don't  let  these  ladies  pass,  you  sha'n't 
come  in  yourselves,  that 's  all,"  and  jerks  them  along. 

A V and  L C get  in  several  shots 

before  Miss  H and  I.     When  we  are  handed  into 

the  small  gallery,  there  they  sit,  stowed  each  in  her  ap- 
pointed chair,  A in  the  first  row,  L on  the 

third,  and  I  am  mounted  to  the  fourth.  This  gallery 
is  like  a  little  section  of  the  family  circle  in  our  thea- 
tres ;  it  will  hold  perhaps  forty,  —  that  is  all,  and 
there  is  no  other  place ;  so,  instead  of  grumbling, 
you  begin  to  thank  your  stars  you  got  in  at  all. 
Still  the  men  pass  the  women  along  twos  by  twos, 
and  don't  the  last  couples  look  black  who  have  to 
climb  up  to  the  top  seats  ?'  They  might  as  well  be  in 
St.  Peter's  for  all  they  can  see  or  hear  of  what  is  go- 
ing on  in  the  hall  below,  down  into  which  we  look. 
It  is  half  filled  with  the  Propaganda  boys  facing  the 
gallery ;  a  great  sea  of  black  cloth  with  gleams  of  red 
lining,  and  a  featureless  white  face  once  in  so  often,  — 
that  is  how  they  looked. 

Then  there  were  three  fiery  blotches  on  the  front 
seat,  cardinals'  caps  and  cloaks  of  hottest  red ;  behind 
them,  the  next  shade  of  dignity  and  righteousness,  the 
monsignori,  all  purple  (half  mourning,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause they  are  not  cardinals) ;  then  came  spectators, 
chiefly  priests  and  monks ;  in  two  balconies,  opposite 
each  other,  the  music,  —  the  leader  had  gray  hair,  and 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


iSl 


held  a  violin  under  one  arm  all  the  while  he  beat  time 
with  his  baton ;  it  was  droll  to  see  him  leaning  out  of 
his  balcony,  and  gesticulating  with  both  arms  to  the 
other  half  of  his  orchestra  way  off  on  the  other  side  of 
the  hall.  I  forgot  to  listen  to  what  they  played,  but 
it  was  very  fine.  Then  there  were  windows  opening 
from  an  outside  gallery  into  the  hall,  and  at  all  these 
windows  stood  the  women  who  could  n't  get  seats. 
Every  year  there  are  fights  at  these  windows ;  no- 
where, they  say,  are  there  such  fights  seen  as  at  these 
ceremonies  at  the  Propaganda,  —  there  is  so  little  room 
and  so  much  interest. 

P and  N saw  a  shocking  scrimmage  there 

to-day  ;  in  fact,  that  was  one  reason  they  came  away, 

N remarking  in  an  audible  tone  that  she  came  to 

hear  the  young  men  speak,  but  she  had  heard  nothing 
but  quarrelling  and  fighting,  and  she  should  not  stay  to 
hear  any  more.  Fancy  hearing  well-dressed  women, 
who  can  speak  French  and  Italian  and  English,  and 
perhaps  German,  abusing  each  other  face  to  face  in  a 
public  crowd. 

"  Madam,  it  is  evident  you  are  no  lady." 

"  Madam,  I  will  call  the  police  and  have  you  taken 
out." 

Well,  we  all  got  our  breaths,  and  the  boys  had  theirs 
beforehand,  and  it  began.  Nobody  spoke  more  than 
five  minutes;  those  who  could,  sang  at  the  end  of 
their  little  "  piece  "  a  few  lines  of  what  I  presumed  to 
be  a  national  air.  Some  of  them  were  very  wild  and 
pathetic ;  most  of  the  Asiatic  ones  reminded  me  of  the 
songs  of  the  sailors  at  sea.  It  was  a  great  joke  that 
when  the  "  Inglese  "  came  we  could  not  understand  it 
much  more  than  we  had  the  Persian.  It  was  spoken 
by  "  Signor  Giacomo  Burns,"  of  Glasgow,  and,  so  far  as 
I  did  comprehend  it,  I  must  say  it  was  anything  but 
shrewd  or  Scotch-like  in  its  ideas.  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
that  we  all  had  had  given  to  us  f>  pamphlet  programme 
of  the  exercises,  in  which  was  printed  each  speech,  in 


1 82     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

Italian,  with  the  man's  name  and  country  below  it. 
Some  of  these  brought  up  strange  pictures  just  by  their 
very  look.  "  Signor  Michel!  Chenaja  di  Yelchife  Nella 
Mesopotamia,"  "  Signor  Gulielmo  Samba  dell  Isola  di 
S.  Maria  Nella  Senegambia."  Ah,  he  was  the  man 
that  it  would  have  warmed  your  heart  to  hear  1  Black 
as  the  ace  of  spades,  a  great,  full  voice  like  a  river,  and 
the  presence  and  the  motion  of  an  orator ;  how  they 
clapped  and  clapped  and  clapped  him!  He  wore  gold 
glasses,  and  a  side  light  kept  flashing  on  them,  making 
his  eyes  look  like  yellow  topazes  at  the  distance  from 
which  I  looked  at  him.  He  sang  an  African  song 
which  was  so  exactly  like  a  plantation  "  break-down," 
that  I  began  to  think  the  whole  scene  was  a  weird 
dream ;  the  candles,  the  scarlet,  the  fresco,  the  Swiss 
Guards,  the  erect  black  man  in  his  solemn  black  gown, 
and  out  of  his  mouth  coming  these  ludicrous  "  Hi-yi's." 
But  I  think  he  was  the  strongest  man  intellectually  of 
all  who  spoke.  I  have  observed  him  many  times 
before,  walking  arm  in  arm  with  the  white  students. 
You  hardly  ever  go  out  witliout  meeting  a  procession 
of  them  taking  their  walk,  and  I  have  always  been 
impressed  by  this  man's  face.  How  long  before  we 
shall  be  great  enough  in  America  to  see  such  a  thing 
in  Yale  or  Harvard  ? 

Everybody  grew  tired,  but  I  did  n't.  Many  went  out, 
so  that  I  finally  clambered  over  and  down  till  I  was 
in  the  front  seat.  After  the  exercises  were  done  we 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  down.  Up  steps 
the  guard,  and  says,  "  It  is  against  orders  for  women  to 
look  over !  "  I  could  n't  see  what  more  harm  we  could 
do  to  the  poor  men  by  looking  over.  We  had  been 
set  up  there  in  full  sight  for  three  hours,  for  them  to 
look  at  and  find  out  how  nice  we  wore  !    But  we  turned 

meekly    away,    and    A and    I   ran    home    alone 

through  the  Due  Macelli  and  past  the  Capo  la  Casa, 
through  the  Via  Felice ;  then  she  to  the  Via  Sistina 
and  I  to  the  Via  Quattro  Fontane,  and  it  was  quite  too 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


183 


dark,  but  nobody  troubled  us.  Do  you  like  the  sound 
of  the  names  of  the  places  where  we  walk?  I  do.  If 
one  could  only  walk  more  !  But  these  torturing  pave- 
ments !  Somebody  said  in  the  "  Pall  Mall,"  the  other 
day,  that  a  pilgrimage  over  the  pavements  of  Rome 
without  peas  in  your  shoes  was  quite  enough  to  atone 
for  most  sins.  Sometimes  I  think  one  hour  of  it  has 
cleared  my  scot !  0,  how  they  twist  you  and  turn 
you !     Everybody  hobbles,  nobody  walks. 

The  next  day  we  drove  out  to  Santa  Maria  Navicella, 
one  of  the  oldest  churches  in  Rome,  way  out  and  up 
on  the  Cselian  HilL  We  went  through  lovely  old  lanes, 
walled  up  high  on  each  side,  with  ivies  and  vines  of  all 
sorts ;  then  under  the  arch  of  Dolabella  —  did  you 
know  him  ?  —  and  then  we  came  to  the  church.  We 
knew  it  by  the  great  marble  boat  in  front  of  it,  —  solid 
marble,  gray  and  black,  and  split  in  the  middle ;  a 
boar's  head  on  the  prow,  much  chipped  on  the  edges, 
and  with  fools'  names  scribbled  over  it,  —  chiefly  in 
English,  I  am  sorry  to  say.  Leo  X.  made  this  one; 
there  used  to  be  a  much  older  one,  which  came  to  grief^ 
and  this  is  the  model  of  it.  I  am  sure  all  the  little 
boys  on  the  Caelian  Hill  for  centuries  have  wished  they 
had  it. 

In  the  church  were  thirty  men  mumbling  off  a  sort 
of  lay  service,  and  a  slipshod  monk  at  the  altar,  and  the 

two  Misses ,  nice  old  maids  from  Massachusetts, 

patting  about  among  the  pillars.  Over  the  tribune  — 
that  means  the  round  place  at  the  end,  on  which  the 
altar  stands  —  were  such  odd  mosaics,  you  laughed 
before  you  knew  it ;  Christ  and  the  Apostles  and  the 
Angels  all  put  in  little  bits  of  marble,  and  looking  much 
more  as  if  they  came  from  the  court  of  Japan  than  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ;  in  the  ninth  century  they  were 
stuck  up  there,  and  I  suppose  they  will  stay  forever. 
Next  we  went  to  San  Stefano  Rotondo.  This  is  still 
queerer  and  older ;  used  to  be  part  of  a  meat-market 
in  Nero's  time.    In  the  court-yard  we  saw  an  old  well, 


3  84     E^'^CYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

which  somehow  reminded  me  of  getting  ice  from  the 
butcher's  shop  next  door,  at  home. 

The  church  is  just  one  huge  round  room,  high  and 
gloomy  and  bare,  with  a  row  of  columns,  and  what 
do  you  think  for  frescoes  ?  —  all  the  possible  and  impos- 
sible martyrdoms !  panel  after  panel,  the  whole  dreary 
circuit;  and  you  get  into  such  a  horrible  sort  of  spell 
that  you  can't  help  going  on  from  one  to  another,  till 
at  last  you  feel  as  if  you  had  been  head-executioner  to 
the  Inquisition  for  a  hundred  years,  and  would  have 
to  chop  off  heads,  and  broil  people  on  gridirons,  like  a 
kind  of  Wandering  Jew,  till  the  end  of  time  ! 

Under  each  picture  is  a  slab  with  a  Latin  inscription 
telling  you  who  did  it,  to  whom,  where  and  when, 
and  all  about  it,  and  you  spell  these  out  with  a  dim 
sense  of  finding  out  that  it  is  all  a  fancy  sketch.  This  is 
all  there  is  to  this  church,  except  some  grotesque  mo- 
saics in  the  tribune  done  in  the  seventh  century,  two  big 
saints  and  a  little  Saviour,  and  in  the  vestibule  a  great 
marble  chair  in  which  St.  Gregory  sat  and  read  his 
"  Fourth  Homily."  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  know  who 
he  was,  or  what  his  Fourth  Homily  was  about.  All  I 
know  is,  that,  if  the  Homily  were  long,  the  Saint  must 
have  grown  uncommon  stifiT  and  cold. 

Monday  we  went  all  over  the  Quirinal  Palace,  — 
twenty-six  rooms  of  it  at  least,  all  they  show ;  I  dare  say 
they  keep  twenty-six  more  locked  up.  Such  a  dreary 
place  as  it  is!  0  the  poor  lonely  Pope !  I  hope  the 
Vatican  is  better.  Marble  floors,  or  else  inlaid  wood  ; 
walls  marble  half-way  up,  and  never  stopping;  such 
distant  ceilings  ;  many  of  the  walls  hung  with  crimson 
damask,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  frozen,  spite  of 
its  red ;  chairs  in  nearly  all  the  rooms  of  solid  wood, 
some  of  them  black  walnut,  but  some  painted  in  imi- 
tations of  marble  and  malachite,  all  with  Pius  IX. 
on  the  front,  the  poor  garde  7iohile,  and  anybody  else 
who  lives  there,  must  have  a  hard  time  sitting  on  them  ; 
crucifixes  in  every  room,  and  in  several  of  the  state 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      185 

rooms  a  throne  with  a  canopy  over  it.  I  kept  thinking 
the  Pope  had  run  off  with  my  beggar,  and  lucky  enough 
iie  would  be  if  he  had  ! 

We  saw  his  bedroom,  all  crimson  and  gilt,  but  quite 
plain  ;  that  and  the  study  were  the  only  rooms  which 
looked  small  enough  to  live  in ;  he  has  a  study  table, 
like  any  other  man,  with  a  place  in  the  middle  to  put 
his  legs  under.  I  sat  down  in  the  chair,  and  put  my 
heretic  feet  on  his  damask  footstool,  where  nobody 
saw  me.  I  should  like  to  write  one  of  my  encyclicals 
there. 

But  the  spittoons !  Ha  !  that  pleased  me !  I  hope 
somebody  will  tell  Mr.  Dickens ;  I  never  saw  so  many  in 
a  hotel  in  America.  They  are  in  almost  every  room,  but 
their  purpose  is  cunningly  hid  in  this  fashion  :  the  box 
has  a  lid,  —  it  is  all  of  wood,  —  and  a  broad  band  like  a 
bell-pull  fastened  to  this  lid,  and  then  going  up  to  a 
sort  of  high  post,  which  is  attached  to  the  box,  and  the 
whole  thing  looks  rather  ornamental,  and  it  was  n't  till 
after  some  time  I  smelt  out  the  trick;  then  I  slipped 
back  into  the  Pope's  study,  and  I  lifted  up  the  very  one 
by  his  sacred  chair,  and  sure  enough  there  it  was,  sand 
and  all,  a  spittoon  !  The  custode  never  missed  me,  but  I 
wonder  what  he  would  have  said  if  he  had  caught  me 
at  it. 

A  dear  honest  old  priest  from  the  country  was  taken 
round  at  the  same  time  with  us,  and  his  tender  ado- 
ration of  everything  was  pathetic  to  see ;  he  went  on 
tiptoe  round  the  most  sacred  spots,  and  talked  under 
his  breath.  The  custode  would  speak  English  with 
us,  and  we  could  hardly  understand  a  word  he  said ; 
but  we  were  ashamed  to  ask  him  to  speak  in  Italian, 
for  fear  we  should  understand  still  less. 

The  Pope's  private  chapel  was  the  only  homelike- 
looking  place  there  ;  that  was  really  cosoy,  if  it  is  proper 
to  say  such  a  thing  of  a  room  with  arches  on  each  side 
and  a  high  dome,  all  one  mass  of  gilt  and  carving 
and  fresco ;  but  it  really  did  look  comfortable,  it  was 


l86      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

so  small  in  comparison  with  the  great  giant  caverns 
we  had  been  through.  In  this  chapel  is  a  Guido,  — • 
The  Annunciation.  The  Virgin  is  a  good-looking  wo- 
man in  a  great  blue  gown,  and  the  Angel  is  another 
good-looking  woman  in  as  much  more  yellow  gown, 
and  with  the  things  which  artists  have  agreed  among 
themselves  to  call  wings  growing  out  of  her  shoulders. 

Tuesday  was  the  day  for  the  Villa  Albani.  I  have 
told  you  about  the  Villa  Pamfili  Doria.  That  is  my  love, 
no  other  villa  will  wean  me  ;  but  the  Villa  Albani  has 
a  great  collection  of  statues  and  pictures.  I  sat  on  the 
balcony  all  the  afternoon,  and  looked  at  the  view :  Al- 
ban  hills  all  in  shadow,  deep  blue ;  Monte  Gennaro  also 
in  deep  shadow,  but  the  whole  long  range  of  the  Sa- 
bine Hills  between,  one  kaleidoscope  of  light  and  shade  ; 
the  clouds  lay  low  and  the  sun  was  bright,  —  cloud 
effects  here  are  rare,  for  the  sky  is  usually  clear,  too 
clear  for  the  beauty  of  the  landscape.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  Sabine  Hills  that  afternoon.  Among  the 
statues  was  one  old  Bacchus  that  I  think  I  should  like 
to  have  come  to  supper. 

Wednesday  I  drove  about  all  day  with  P ,  who 

was  doing  last  errands  before  starting  for  Sicily.  It 
always  seems  more  unreal  to  do  shopping  in  Rome  than 
anything  else ;  to  stop  in  one  of  these  old  streets  at  a 
glove-cleaning  place  seems  such  a  flagrant  violation  of 
unities ;  after  the  errands  were  done,  we  went  to  the 
Coliseum  for  our  good-by,  and  sat  there  till  the  sun 
looked  in  in  level  beams,  it  was  so  low.  The  wallflower 
Is  blazing  out  now  from  all  the  high  places  which  you  can- 
not reach, —  such  great  swinging  masses  of  vivid  yellow, 
it  is  more  than  human  nature  can  bear  to  see  it,  and 
the  larks  sing  among  it  like  divine  flutes.  While  we 
sat  there,  some  poor  working  women  walked  through, 
and  all  knelt  and  kissed  the  great  cross  in  the  centre,  — 
to  kiss  that  cross  makes  you  free  for  a  certain  number  of 
years  from  Purgatory,  —  after  them  came  two  priests, 
and  took  off  their  great  flapping  hats  and  kissed  it  too. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.    »  187 

Thursday  we  went  to  the  Ludovisi  Villa ;  that  is 
really  a  villa  which  one  could  go  into  a  rhapsody  over 
if  one  had  not  sworn  allegiance  to  the  Pamfili  Doria. 
O,  that  reminds  me  I  have  not  told  you  that  in  the 
Pamfili  Doria  the  real  anemones  are  out  now,  and  on 
Friday,  the  19th,  we  went  there,  and  I  picked  a  great 
basket  full.  The  meadows  were  literally  covered;  we 
trod  them  down,  we  could  not  help  it ;  I  could  have 
cried ;  I  did  not  dare  to  look  where  I  had  walked ; 
they  are  white,  they  are  buff,  they  are  scarlet,  they  are 
crimson,  they  are  lavender,  they  are  pink,  they  are 
purple,  they  are  white  with  purple  veins,  white  with 
pink  tips,  buff  with  dark  crimson  base,  buff  with  pur- 
ple, and  besides  all  these  many  more  !  Of  course  you 
don't  believe  me ;  I  should  n't  if  anybody  told  me. 
They  are  like  a  small  single  poppy,  made  a  little  more 
neatly,  and  the  leaves  pointed  a  little  and  setting  up  in 
a  cup  shape ;  they  are  all  sizes,  from  a  tiny  buttercup 
to  a  good  genuine  poppy  size ;  they  are  close  to  the 
ground,  or  they  get  up  as  high  as  six  or  eight  inches  on 
their  stalks  ;  and  all  the  world  can  go  two  days  a  week 
to  this  villa  and  pick  all  they  want,  and,  whatever  else 
the  house  of  Doria  does  or  does  not,  that  is  a  princely 
bit  of  good-fellowship  with  the  world,  is  n't  it  ?  Now 
to  go  back  to  Ludovisi,  it  was  there  that  I  had  your 
last  letter.  We  had  found  it  at  the  bankers  on  our  way, 
and  I  carried  it  in  my  pocket  through  great  avenues  of 
ilexes,  walks  with  hedges  of  box  and  laurel  twenty  feet 
high,  past  a  bird-cage  as  big  as  a  small  house,  with  a 
wire  dome,  and  a  big  tree  growing  under  it,  and  a  foun- 
tain at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  and  a  hundred  canaries 
doing  as  they  liked  there,  which  was  chiefly  to  sing 
and  to  spatter;  past  statues  of  Hercules  and  all  the 
other  old  heroes,  and  a  grand  head  of  Juno ;  past  great 
frescoed  rooms  where  are  an  Aurora  by  Guercino  and 
a  Night  by  somebody  else,  both  of  which  are  lovely 
in  photograph,  and  not  a  bit  lovely  in  plaster,  —  way 
up  and  up  to  the  third  floor  of  the  casino  and  out  on 


l88     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

the  terrace,  where  we  sat  down  with  our  backs  to  the 
sun  and  our 'faces  to  Soracte,  and  I  read  your  letter. 

L read  one  from  her  brother,  and  we  said  no  word 

to  each  other  for  an  hour.  Tlien  we  walked  about  and 
picked  violets  which  should  be  called  Tyrian,  they  are 
so  purple.  All  of  a  sudden  there  came  a  dark  cloud 
in  the  midst  of  the  blue  of  the  sunshine,  and  without 
one  second's  warning  a  sharp  shower.  It  really  seemed 
as  though  some  mischievous  little  heavenly  boy  must 
be  doing  it  with  squirt-guns,  for  the  sun  shone  as  bright- 
ly as  ever,  and  at  first  we  could  not  even  see  the  cloud, 
it  was  so  little  a  tree  hid  it ;  but  we  had  to  run  all  the 
same  as  if  it  had  been  big,  and  we  got  wet,  too,  before 
we  could  reach  our  carriage,  and  that  was  the  end  of 
that  day's  sight-seeing.  And  that  must  be  the  end  of 
this  letter. 

We  long  for  the  country,  Albano  gleams  out  cool 
and  white  high  on  the  hillside  only  twelve  miles 
away,  and  beckons  and  lures  like  a  magic  strain  of 
music  in  the  distance.  Perhaps  my  next  letter  will  be 
from  that  fairy  spot    Farewell. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER,      jgg 


VraiCE,  Sanday  P.  if.,  May  16, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE  :  We  came  away.  It  was  harder 
than  you  could  imagine.  Rome  is  a  siren  of  sirens. 
It  was  so  hot  that  we  could  scarcely  breathe  from 
ten  o'clock  till  four,  and  there  was  nothing  to  eat  ex- 
cept ices  and  strawberries  with  no  flavor  to  them,  but 
we  clung  to  the  very  stones  of  that  city.  I  went  in 
from  the  beloved  Albano  on  Friday,  the  7th,  supposing 
that  we  should  set  out  for  Venice  on  the   following 

Tuesday ;  but  P and  N were  not  ready,  and 

we  did  not  get  off  until  Thursday.  At  first  when  they 
told  me  this  I  said,  "  I  will  go  directly  back  to  Albano. 
I  will  never  stay  in  this  ill-odored  oven  five  days ! " 
But  I  stayed,  and  when  Wednesday  came  I  privately 
hoped  that  some  dresses,  or  marbles,  or  pictures  would 
not  come  home  at  the  last  minute,  so  that  we  should 
be  kept  a  day  or  two  longer.  There  are  still  so  many 
things  in  Rome  that  I  have  not  seen.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
made  only  a  beginning,  though  I  have  been  there  more 
than  four  months ;  in  those  five  last  days,  however,  I 
made  good  use  of  the  time ;  if  I  had  been  as  indus- 
trious all  winter,  I  should  have  accomplished  more. 
Among  other  things  I  did,  which  had  been  inexplicably 
postponed  in  the  winter,  was  the  "  Palace  of  the  Caesars." 
I  could  not  tell  how  many  times  the  day  had  been  set 
to  go  there.  Once,  as  I  wrote  you,  I  stood  at  the  gate, 
with  the  whole  Archagological  Society  at  my  back,  and 
could  not  get  in.  I  had  grown  superstitious  about  it ; 
but  at  last  I  really  did  get  in,  and  then,  0  my  country- 
men and  women,  what  a  fall  was  there  I  I  had  all 
along  anticipated  seeing  ruins  grander  than  any  other 
except  the  Coliseum.     As  I  saw  them  from  the  distance 


I  go      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

they  looked  imposing,  and  looked  wild  and  overgrown, 
like  the  Baths  of  Caracalla,  and  as  all  ruins  ought  to  look. 
But  what  do  you  think  you  see  when  the  gate  is  first 
opened?  (It  is  owned,  you  must  know,  by  Napoleon, 
sold  to  him  for  $  40,000  by  the  King  of  Naples,  "  that 
very  stoopid  young  man,"  as  Signor  L said,  in  tell- 
ing me  about  it,  "  for  $  40,000  this  whole  grand  ruin ; 
and  the  water  privilege  alone  is  worth  more  than  that," 
•  So  the  Emperor  has  walled  it  in,  and  is  carrying  on 
excavations  in  a  masterly  manner,  and  the  public  only 
go  in  on  Thursdays ;  but  I  went  in  with  Signor  L— — , 
who  has  always  the  right  to  go  anywhere  on  any  day, 
so  far  as  we  can  discover ;  and  we  went  on  a  Satur- 
day.) When  the  gate  is  opened,  you  see  a  broad  walk 
and  a  sort  of  ca/e-like  building,  and  very  much  land- 
scape garden,  nice  little  beds,  such  as  you  might  see  in 
Brooklyn  or  Springfield,  bushels  of  roses,  and  white 
thorn  and  box  borders ;  if  you  are  like  me,  you  stand 
stock-still  and  burst  out  laughing,  and  say,  "  Where  is 
the  Palace  of  the  Caesars  ?  "  and  then  your  archaeolo- 
gist leads  you  along,  up  and  up,  into  great  spaces, 
some  of  them  floored  with  mosaic,  some  of  them  bare 
earth,  but  all  cleaner  and  more  swept  and  garnished 
and  scrubbed  than  any  old  maid's  parlor  you  ever  saw ; 
great  columns  set  here  and  there,  and  grand  bits  of 
marble,  fragments  of  acanthus,  and  legs  and  arms,  etc., 
such  as  you  see  always  in  the  ruins  of  Rome ;  but  here 
they  are  all  set  by  so  neatly  that,  upon  my  word,  you 
don't  feel  as  if  they  were  ever  in  any  other  place  in 
their  lives.  Then,  as  I  say  (if  you  are  like  me),  you 
laugh  still  more,  in  fact,  you  get  positively  irreverent ; 
and  you  look  round,  expecting  to  see  old  women  with 
pails  and  mops  in  every  comer,  and  there  is  nobody  in 
sight,  except  workmen  wheeling  away  things  in  wheel- 
barrows, and  you  think  they  must  be  carrying  off  the 
old  "vypmen  with  pails  and  mops,  for  there  does  not 
seem  to  be  anything  else  to  carry  off  I  All  this  time  the 
archaeologist  is  delivering  a  little  lecture  by  your  side; 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


191 


ho"W  this  is  the  old  audience  chamber,  and  this  was  the 
dining-room,  and  this  circular  mosaic  at  the  end  is  the 
place  where  the  emperors  used  to  sit,  —  and  very  likely 
fo'e,  if  they  ever  got  "  under  the  table,"  —  and  this  is 
the  bath-room,  and  this  is  the  academy  where  every 
day  a  poet  read  a  poem,  or  a  philosopher  or  historian 
an  essay,  before  the  emperor ;  and  at  last  the  archaeolo- 
gist sees  that  you  are  shaking  with  laughter,  and, 
having  previously  found  you  more  than  sentimental 
enough  on  other  occasions  over  other  ruins,  he  thinks 
you  are  laughing  at  his  English,  and  stops  short  and 
says,  "  What  are  you  doing  ?  what  have  you  the  mat- 
ter?" And  then  you,  that  is  I,  sink  down  into  a 
thicket  of  purple  foxglove,  and  begin  to  sneeze  violent- 
ly (for  rose-cold  happens  in  these  days,  because  Italy 
is  one  great  garden  in  blossom).  Then  I  try  to  ex- 
plain that  I  think  it  the  funniest  thing  in  life  to  see 
a  ruin  so  scrubbed  up  and  put  in  such  horribly  good 
order;  that  there  is  such  an  eminently  French  look 
about  it  all,  that  it  seems  to  belong  to  the  Rue  St.  Ho- 
nore,  and  to  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  Rome 
either  ancient  or  modem;  and  that  I  very  much 
doubt  if  ever  an  emperor  set  his  foot  in  it !  Then  the 
archaeologist,  being  the  gentlest  little  soul  in  the  world, 
loses  his  temper,  and  says,  "  You  are  very  provokking  " ; 
and  that  completes  my  nervous  amusement,  and  all  is 
"  up  "  for  that  day.  However,  when  I  was  fairly  under- 
ground, walking  along  an  old  street,  many  feet  beneath 
the  landscape  garden,  and  looking  into  stuccoed  room 
after  room,  and  up  steep  stone  staircases,  on  one  of 
which  it  seems  to  me  quite  probable  that  Caligula  was 
killed,  I  found  my  usual  faith  and  reverence  reviving, 
and  patched  up  a  sort  of  truce  with  my  archaeologist. 
But  I  shall  never  forget  the  comical  effect  of  that 
first  look  at  the  palace  of  the  Caesars. 

Among  other  good  things  of  those  last  days  in  Rome 
was  an  illumination  of  the  Venus  of  the  Capitol:  day- 
time too  I     It  happened  on  this  wise.     We  went  to  the 


192 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


room  at  just  that  one  minute  of  noon,  when  the  sun 
flooded  in  through  the  upper  panes  of  the  window  on 
the  right,  and  Ut  up  the  whole  statue  with  a  positively 
supernatural  color.  Even  the  custode  exclaimed  he  had 
never,  in  all  the  years  before,  happened  to  hit  that  pre- 
cise moment  and  such  a  sun.  The  face  smiled,  and  the 
right  arm  trembled  a  little  as  the  sunlight  flickered 
over  it.  We  stood  breathless  and  silent,  and  it  would 
not  have  surprised  us  in  that  instant  to  have  heard  a 
voice  from  the  lips.  On  the  left  of  the  Venus  stands 
a  dear  little  girl  in  marble,  looking  like  anybody's  little 
girl  in  the  next  street,  only  that  her  gown  is  all  one 
great  square  piece  of  something  gathered  up  in  what 
were  folds  in  those  days,  but  would  look  uncommonly 
bunchy,  I  think,  if  we  were  to  try  them  now.  She  is 
holding  a  little  bird  up  in  her  arms,  to  keep  it  safe  from 
a  snake  which  stretches  up  behind  to  reach  it.  We 
wanted  to  wait  till  the  sun  had  come  to  the  Uttle  girl's 
head,  but  we  had  not  time ;  so  we  ran  to  take  one 
more  look  at  the  black  marble  Centaurs,  and  the  In- 
fant Hercules,  and  then  went  home. 

At  the  last,  the  leaving  Rome  was  quite  picturesque. 
We  went  at  night ;  for  of  the  two  evils,  to  ride  all 
night  seemed  less  than  to  get  up  at  4  a.  m.  and  ride 
all  day  in  the  heat.  Poor  little  Marianina  had  haunted 
the  hotel  all  day ;  running  in  and  out  to  see  if  I  did 
not  want  something  done,  and  finally  standing  in  the 
dining-room  door  while  we  took  our  tea,  and  looking 
at  me  with  the  piteous  eyes  of  a  dumb  animal.  Every 
now  and  then  she  would  say,  "  Iddio  mio  !  Iddio  mio ! 
O  signora  mia  I  "  till  I  could  not  stand  it,  and  had  fair- 
ly to  pretend  to  be  stern,  and  send  her  off.  I  said  to 
her  though,  "  If  I  were  rich,  Marianina,  I  would  take 
you  with  me."  "  0,  but  you  are  rich,  signora  mia !  " 
she  said,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes.  Poor  soul,  I  think 
nobody  has  ever  been  very  kind  to  her  before,  and  this 
one  month  with  me  (with  good  wages  and  nothing  to 
do  I )  has  been  the  one  festa  of  her  Ufe.     Giovanni,  the 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


193 


girls'  old  courier,  went  with  us  to  the  station,  and 
Marianina,  who  had  insisted  on  carrying  my  bundle 
and  bag,  appeared  with  a  cousin  to  carry  the  bun- 
dle ;  so  we  filed  up  past  the  little  garden  and  the  sol- 
diers and  out  among  the  fire-flies,  quite  a  procession. 
Marianina  knelt  on  the  step  of  the  car  till  the  bell 
struck  and  the  guard  pulled  her  off;  then  she  kissed 
our  hands  and  walked  slowly  away,  looking  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  guard  out  of  one  eye,  and  at  me  out  of 
the  other  1  The  guard  said  something  to  his  fellow- 
guard  about  her  beauty,  and  snapped  the  door,  and 
we  were  off,  —  we  three  women,  good  friends,  good 
travellers,  —  off  for  Venice,  with  Rome  written  on  our 
hearts ! 

If  there  be  any  greater  misery  short  of  rheumatic 
fever  than  to  ride  all  night  in  the  cars.  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is.  So  long  as  there  is  daylight,  and  one  can 
see  that  there  are  peace  and  dry  land  and  homes  and 
human  beings  to  the  right  and  left,  railroad  riding  is 
bearable;  but  the  minute  I  am  in  the  dark,  every 
whistle  sounds  hke  the  shriek  of  fiends,  every  jolt  and 
jar  seem  to  me  the  wrenches  of  a  rack  on  which  I  am 
being  torn ;  and  when  people  sleep  on  either  side  of 
my  misery,  I  am  aggravated  to  that  degreee  that  I  am 
dangerous.  Each  time  I  spend  such  a  night,  I  think  I 
will  never  spend  another,  come  what  will ;  but  by  the 
time  the  next  occasion  arrives,  I  buy  my  ticket,  and  go 
on  board  as  docilely  as  the  best  sleeper  among  you. 
And  I  dare  say,  before  I  see  you  again,  I  shall  have 
spent  a  month,  all  told,  in  night  railroading.  It  seems 
to  be  considered  the  thing  to  do  here. 

At  Foligno  the  cocks  crew,  and  the  passengers  got 
out  and  ate,  and  we  could  see  what  color  the  fields 
were.  Then  began  a  royal  progress  through  a  garden ; 
all  the  way  to  Ancona,  four  hours,  nothing  but  wheat- 
fields  and  vineyards ;  in  the  wheat-fields,  scarlet  pop- 
pies and  purple  foxglove,  and  bright  blue  something,  I 
don't  know  what,  but  as  we  dashed  by  it  looked  like 

9  M 


194 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


bachelor's-buttons  flying  off  in  the  air.  Under  the 
vines,  which  were  trained  on  trees,  were  such  fields 
of  crimson  clover  as  you  would  not  beheve  in  if  I 
were  to  tell  yofl  about  them.  Fields  of  crimson  pe- 
onies set  close  as  they  could  stand  would  not  be  more 
crimson.  In  Ancona  I  found  some  peasant-women 
who  had  walked  into  town  with  huge  loads  of  this 
clover  on  their  heads,  and  were  resting  by  the  roadside. 
I  jumped  out  of  the  carriage,  and  asked  them  for  one 
of  the  flowera  0,  how  brown  and  handsome  the 
women  were,  and  how  they  laughed  when  I  broke  off 
one  blossom  and  laid  it  carefully  in  my  book !  I  shall 
slip  a  bit  of  it  in  this  letter,  and  you  can  see  for  your- 
self what  fields  would  look  like  where  such  clover  as 
this  flowered  in  spikes  three  inches  long  I  We  liked 
Ancona,  but  did  not  see  so  much  of  it  as  we  should  if 
we  had  not  gone  straight  into  our  beds  at  9  a.  m, 
and  slept  till  1  p.  m.  !  It  is  enough  to  make  an  engi- 
neer officer's  mouth  water  for  a  war,  to  see  such  hills 
and  such  fortifications.  From  Trajan's  day  till  now  it 
seems  somebody  or  other  has  always  been  building 
forts  there,  and  somebody  else  firing  at  them.  No 
wonder.  The  very  sight  of  the  place  is  a  temptation, 
and  the  build  of  it  as  much  a  proof  of  the  divine 
intent  of  war,  as  flesh-teeth  in  animals.  We  saw  Tra- 
jan's arch,  and  a  statue  to  Cavour,  and  a  cathedral  up 
in  the  air  at  tiptop  of  hills  and  forts  and  town  and  all, 
and  a  gay-looking  theatre  where  Faust  was  to  be  played 
that  night,  and  ever  so  many  nice  shops  with  muslin 
waists  and  straw  things,  which  we  wanted  to  buy,  and 
a  man  peddling  boiled  dinner  round  in  a  big  iron  pot  in 
a  handcart.  Yes,  really  boiled  beef  and  peas  and  pota- 
toes, and  it  smelled  savorily ;  and  a  poor  ragged  crea- 
ture came  out  of  a  forlorn  house  and  bought  a  plateful, 
whUe  we  were  looking  on.  Then  we  bundled  into  a 
little  cockle-shell  of  a  boat,  we  and  our  five  trunks, 
and  were  rowed  off  to  the  steamer,  where  we  found 
an  American  family  at  «lmner  in  the  cabin,  as  if  they 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     195 

had  lived  there  all  their  lives,  —  a  thin,  yellow  mamma, 
with  tight  hair,  which  savored  of  sewing-societies  and 
rigid  principles  ;  a  papa  who  was  all  gray,  grizzled  good- 
nature ;  and  a  miss  who  did  French  for  them  both :  and 
they  had  been  on  the  Nile  all  winter,  and  were  just 
from  Corfu ;  and  were  in  Madeira  the  winter  before ; 
and,  dear  me,  for  all  that,  how  very  inexperienced  and 
uninformed  they  looked ! 

Almost  as  far  as  we  could  see  the  shores  of  Ancona, 
we  could  see  the  bright  patches  of  the  clover-fields. 
They  gradually  faded  from  crimson  to  claret,  and  then 
at  last  looked  like  dark  woods  in  the  diiD  distance.  I 
remembered  Mrs.  Howe's  "  I  stake  my  life  on  the 
red !  "  Wonderful  color,  which  makes  such  road  for 
itself  through  space. 

Think  of  our  not  getting  up  in  time  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  Venice  rising  from  the  sea !  It  was  stupid, 
but  we  might  as  well  own  up  ;  we  did  n't  do  it.  How- 
ever, it  looked  odd  and  unreal  enough  when  we  did 
get  on  deck.  We  were  squeezing  along  in  water  that 
felt  thick,  —  piles  all  about  us,  as  much  land  as  water, 
and  not  enough  of  either  to  make  it  seem  like  anything 
set  down  in  geographies ;  and  the  bell-towers  and 
domes  in  sight,  like  a  gray  mirage  against  the  sky. 
Somehow  I  could  not  feel  as  I  expected  to.  Generally 
you  don't,  I  find.  I  felt  more  like  Mrs.  Partington 
than  like  Rogers,  or  any  other  man  of  them  all  who 
has  touched  bottom  in  Venetian  romance.  If  I  had 
opened  my  mouth,  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  exclaimed, 
Hke  the  worthy  female  above  named :  "  Laws  sakes 
alive !  What  an  awful  freshet  they  must  have  had  1 
And  what  on  airth  are  these  poor  people  going  to  do, 
supposin'  they  can  get  there,  which  seems  no  ways 
likely  ?  "  Then,  when  we  began  to  be  surrounded  by 
the  dismallest  black  craft  I  ever  saw,  uncanny  enough 
to  have  come  straight  from  the  Styx,  and  I  was  told 
exultingly  by  my  companions,  "  There  are  the  gondo- 
las!  "    I  was  still  more  "  taken  down."     I  could  n't 


jge      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

say  either  that  they  looked  unhke  the  photographs  of 
them,  and  that  was  the  most  provoking  part  of  it.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  comical  and  melancholy  they  looked 
to  me  that  morning,  —  and  look  still,  for  that  matter. 
The  body  of  a  hearse  set  down  low  in  the  middle  of  a 
gigantic  peaked  snow-shoe,  the  whole  black  and  sticky, 
and  stamped  with  sepulchral  designs.  It  is  an  under- 
stood thing  now,  that  I  am  not  to  be  expected  to  "  ride 
in  that  kind  of  kerridge  "  again.  Once  I  tried  it,  but 
I  wriggled  and  stumbled  out  instantly,  and  told  the 
girls  if  they  were  going  with  me,  that  hearse-top  must 
be  taken  off.  Rain  or  shine,  I  will  take  my  chance 
with  an  umbrella.  When  this  top  is  off,  a  gondola 
becomes  the  most  fascinating  of  boats.  I  could  glide 
about  forever  in  them ,  and  you  have  the  feeling  all 
the  time  here  that  the  next  minute  the  whole  city  may 
go  under,  and  perhaps  you  can  pick  up  a-survivor  or 
two.  So  it  seems  well  to  be  on  hand  with  your  boat. 
I  suppose  I  shall  become  accustomed  to  this  miracle 
of  a  stone  city  at  anchor.  We  are  to  stay  a  month, 
and  I  must  begin  to  do  something  else  besides  try  to 
look  under  the  houses,  which  is  all  I  have  done  yet. 
Even  the  floors  seem  to  me  to  go  up  and  down  like  the 
old  "  China  "  I  came  over  in.  If  I  were  not  an  uncom- 
monly good  sailor,  I  should  be  seasick  all  the  time ; 
and  when  I  am  walking  in  what  they  call  streets 
(Heaven  save  the  mark ;  they  are  just  cracks  in  the 
walls,  that  is  all :  a  big  soldier  and  I  nearly  got  wedged 
trying  to  pass  each  other  in  one  yesterday,  and  I  had 
on  no  hoop  at  all),  I  half  expect  to  "  slump  through  " 
at  every  step.  As  for  the  Doge's  palace,  that 's  another 
blow  I  It  may  be  imposing ;  I  suppose  Ruskin  knows ; 
but  somehow  it  won't  impose  on  me,  and  I  can't  get  it 
to  I  It  looks  low  and  undignified,  and  the  "edging" 
at  top  is  not  half  so  good  in  effect  as  I  have  seen  round 
summer-houses  at  home.  And  the  windows  are  not 
in  line,  nor  sufficiently  out  of  line  (like  our  dear  old 
up-and-down  windows  in  Rome)  to  be  picturesque; 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


197 


and  the  colonnades  look  to  me  very  shoppy ;  and  there, 
you  see,  I  am,  and,  like  Martin  Luther,  "  I  can  no 
more  " ;  and  I  suppose  you  will  think  there  is  no  fun 
at  all  in  having  such  an  unappreciative  friend  in  Ven- 
ice, especially  if  she  does  not  know  enough  to  keep 
quiet  about  the  sacred  things  she  is  too  ignorant  to 
admire.  I  have  been  up  and  down  the  Grand  Canal 
twice,  and  seen  more  old  palace  fronts  than  I  can  count. 
They  are  fantastic  and  gorgeous,  and  it  all  looks  Ara- 
bian Nights-ish;  but  I  cannot  make  it  look  to  me 
otherwise  than  overloaded  and  mixed.  All  the  time  I 
find  myself  recalling  the  stern  simplicity  and  beauty 
and  grandeur  of  arches  and  walls  and  churches  in 
Rome,  and  Venice  seems  to  me  tawdry.  This  is  at 
end  of  the  second  day,  however ;  so  it  is  premature. 
We  have  begun  to  read  aloud  the  "  Stones  of  Venice," 
and  we  are  going  to  be  praise  worthily  conscientious  in 
attention  to  all  that  Ruskin  tells  us  is  admirable  j  so  at 
the  end  of  our  month  I  may  be  as  enthusiastic  an  ad- 
mirer of  the  city  as  he.  But  the  one  thing  I  expect  to 
be  made  really  happy  by,  and  to  bear  away  with  me 
to  keep  the  rest  of  my  life,  is  the  color  of  Titian. 
Michael  Angelo  is  the  god  of  shape;  I  think  Titian 
must  be  of  color ;  and  no  wonder,  when  he  fed  on 
such  sunsets.  Last  night,  beside  all  else,  we  had  a 
rainbow  over  the  sunset.  It  broke  up  and  floated 
about  in  pieces ;  and  the  Doge's  palace  looked  hke  am- 
ber in  the  yellow  light ;  and  on  the  three  great  scarlet 
flagstaffs  in  St.  Mark's  were  three  huge  flags,  which 
floated  from  the  tops  of  the  staffs  to  the  ground,  — 
green  and  red  and  white,  so  that  all  things  seemed 
turning  to  rainbow. 

We  are  most  comfortably  established  at  the  Hotel 
Vittoria,  not  on    the    Grand    Canal,  .thank    Heaven ! 

When  at  first  N said  that  she  did  not  dare  to  stay 

on  the  Grand  Canal,  because  she  feared  too  much  sea 
air,  I  was  quite  dismayed.  But  now  I  am  thankful 
enough  to  have  dry  land  ;  that  is,  a  stone  floor  laid  on 


ig8      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

piles,  on  one  side  of  our  house.  I  look  down  from  my 
window  into  one  of  the  cracks  called  streets ;  the  people 
look  as  if  they  were  being  threaded  into  the  Scriptural 
needle's  eye,  and  a  hand-organ  looks  like  a  barricade. 
Yesterday  I  threw  down  four  soldi  to  a  man  who  was 
grinding  at  one  under  my  window,  and  made  signs  to 
him  to  go  away,  for  I  was  almost  frantic  with  the  noise 
of  seven  different  bells  ringing  at  the  same  time.  I  am 
in  mortal  terror  now  to  think  of  my  indiscretion,  for 
that  man,  having  discovered  the  "  vally  of  peace  and 
quiet "  to  me,  I  presume  will  become  a  regular  pen- 
sioner on  my  bounty  for  the  rest  of  my  stay. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


199 


ViancE,  Wednesday,  Jnne  2, 18OT. 

THERE  is  SO  much  to  tell  you  about  here,  that  I 
see  plainly  my  only  way  will  be  to  keep  a  sort  of 
journal,  and  if,  so  doing,  I  make  my  letter  into  a  book, 
I  hope  enough  of  the  color  of  the  days  will  get  into  its 
pages  to  repay  you  for  struggling  through  them.  We 
finished  up  our  May  with  a  christening!  —  Venetian 
twins,  in  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  e  Palo,  called  in 
the  guide-book  vernacular  (if  there  be  such  a  thing  as 
vernacular  for  men  who  write  guide-books,  bless 
them !)  "  the  Westmmster  Abbey  of  Venice." 

We  had  wandered  about  among  the  tombs  of  the 
Doges,  and  the  statues  of  generals,  and  the  altars  and  the 
candles,  and  the  pictures  and  the  scaffoldings,  and  the 
workmen  and  mortar,  and  the  begging  men  and  boys 
and  old  women,  till  we  were  perfectly  exhausted,  and 
did  not  care  whether  Venice  ever  had  a  Doge  or  not, 
or  if  the  beggars  died  of  starvation  at  our  feet ;  and 
we  were  just  going  off,  when  we  saw  a  woman  hurry- 
ing into  the  church   with  a  glass  box   in  her  arms. 

P ,  who  had  seen  them  before,  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  oh  ! 

there  is  a  baby  to  be  baptized !  "  and  we  almost  ran 
towards  the  woman.  A  baby  indeed !  there  were  two 
babies,  rolled  up  tight,  like  mummies,  to  their  very 
throats ;  little  knit  caps  on  their  heads,  which  were 
about  as  big  and  red  as  Baldwin  apples,  and  rolled  about 
from  side  to  side  as  if  the  stems  would  n't  last  long. 
The  box  was  perhaps  a  foot  and  a  half  or  two  feet  long, 
and  a  foot  high,  —  a  wooden  framework,  with  knobs  at 
the  corners  like  bedpost  tops ;  the  sides  of  glavss,  and 
holes  around  the  edges  in  the  wood-work  to  let  in  the 
air.  The  babies  were  twins,  and  were  just  one  day  old  I 


iOO     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

The  woman  set  the  box  down  on  a  bench  by  the  wall 
as  indifferently  as  if  it  had  been  a  bundle  of  old  clothes, 
and  waliied  away.  There  they  lay,  the  two  poor  httle 
gasping  things,  all  alone  in  this  huge  church,  with  effi- 
gies of  dead  Doges  and  great  equestrian  statues  all  about 
them.  I  never  supposed  anything  so  uncanny  could  hap- 
pen to  one  in  the  first  forty-eight  hours  after  getting  into 
the  world,  even  if  one  had  the  luck  to  land  in  Venice  1 

P and  I  stood  and  watched  the  poor  little  creatures ; 

they  hardly  seemed  human,  though  their  eyes  were  really 
bright  and  they  were  unusually  wide-awake-looking 
babies  for  their  time  of  life.  One  of  them  was  quite 
uncomfortable,  and  gasped  often  as  if  it  would  cry  if  the 
bandages  were  not  too  tight ;  the  other,  which  had  a 
red  string  in  its  cap,  and  by  that  token  I  thought  was 
the  older  of  the  two,  seemed  to  look  upon  the  grimaces 
of  his  brother  with  positive  philosophical  scorn.  He 
would  look  him  steadily  in  the  eye  for  a  minute,  and 
his  mouth  seemed  quite  pursed  up  with  contempt  for 
such  babyishness.  Presently  the  woman  came  back, 
and  with  her  a  priest,  slouchy  and  unneat,  with  a  pur- 
ple vestment  slipped  on  over  his  old  coat ;  a  little  rag- 
ged boy  carrying  a  candle ;  and  a  stout  handsome  fellow, 
evidently  a  workman,  whom  I  took  to  be  the  father. 
It  turned  out  afterward  that  he  was  only  the  god- 
father, which  relieved  my  mind  of  some  anxiety,  be- 
cause I  did  not  at  all  like  the  stolid,  uninterested  way 
in  which  he  looked  down  on  the  baby's  face  while  he 
held  it.  The  father  was  in  the  sacristy  through  the 
whole  ceremony,  and  did  not  so  much  as  peep  out. 
The  woman  who  brought  the  babies  was  evidently  a 
servant,  and  there  was  no  attempt  at  holiday  attire 
about  her  ;  in  fact,  the  whole  atmosphere  of  tlie  thing 
would  have  led  you  to  suppose  that  baptism  of  twins 
was  an  every-day  thing  to  them  all,  and  it  was  much  as 
ever  they  could  do  to  spare  time  for  it.  Fancy  the 
group,  —  the  priest,  the  little  boy  with  the  candle,  the 
heavy   godfather   holding  the  baby,  tlie  listless  ser- 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     201 

vant,  and  two  eager  and  horrified  American  women 
looking  on  !  An  old  beggar-woman  hobbled  up  too, 
and  stood  near.  The  other  poor  baby  meantime  was 
left  alone  in  its  glass-walled  bed  half-way  down  the 
church;  the  door  ajar,  and  nobody  to  watch!  Such 
a  chance  to  steal  a  baby !  The  priest  mumbled  and 
galloped  over  a  Latin  service;  once  in  a  few  min- 
utes the  little  boy  said  something  which  sounded  like 
"  Nan !  Nan !  "  The  priest  put  a  great  pinch  of  salt 
into  the  poor  little  thing's  mouth,  breathed  on  it,  put 
oil  in  its  ears,  on  its  breast,  and  on  the  back  of  its  neck, 
the  godfather  holding  it  bolt  upright  with  the  poor 
little  one-day-old  spine  bending  and  lopping  in  all  di- 
rections 1  The  sacristan  spilt  some  of  the  oil,  and  the 
priest  almost  laughed  out ;  then  they  all  laughed ;  and 
the  servant  took  twin  No.  1  back  to  the  case,  and 
brought  up  No.  2.  But  we  did  not  stay  to  see  the 
ceremony  over  again  ;  it  was  too  horrible. 

The  only  things  I  shall  remember  about  this  church 
are  these  twin  babies ;  the  ornamental  effigy  of  a  gen- 
eral, who  died  of  grief  after  a  defeat  in  battle ;  and  a 
fine  Gothic  arch  in  the  wall  over  a  sarcophagus,  —  "  the 
tomb  of  an  unknown  person,"  says  Murray.  It  is  won- 
derful, the  spell  of  that  "  unknown  person."  One  day 
in  the  Protestant  cemetery  in  Rome,  I  found  a  grave 
without  a  stone  to  mark  it,  and  white  violets  growing 
above.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  white  violet  I  brought 
away  from  that  grave  has  not  a  voice  sweeter  than 
that  from  the  grave  of  Shelley  !     Who  can  tell  why  ? 

To-day  we  have  had  a  picturesque  day :  first,  the 
school  of  San  Rocco,  three  rooms  full  of  Tintoretto's  pic- 
tures, about  which,  since  I  do  not  like  many  of  them, 
and  am  not  competent  to  speak,  I  hold  my  tongue. 

Next  we  went  to  the  church  of  San  Crisostomo  ;  and 
here  is  a  picture,  by  Giovanni  Bellini,  witli  which  one 
can  form  an  intimate  friendship !  1  should  like  to  spend 
mornings  with  these  saints :  St.  Jerome,  high  up  on  a 
rock,  with  his  book ;  poor  harassed  St.  Augustine,  in 
9* 


2C2      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

his  mitre  and  vestments,  on  the  right ;  and  on  the  left, 
St.  Christopher  with  the  lovehest  baby  boy  astride  on 
his  shoulders,  holding  on  tight  by  one  little  hand  to 
Christopher's  black  hair.  0,  it  is  delicious !  but  then 
it  won't  sound  so,  and  it  is  stupid  to  take  up  your  time 
with  empty  names  of  things. 

When  we  left  San  Crisostomo  we  supposed  we 
were  going  directly  home.  Surely  we  had  seen  enough 
for  one  day  ;  but  as  we  turned  into  a  narrow  canal  we 
found  all  the  houses  decorated  with  flags,  and  the  flags 
trimmed  with  black.  "  0  Signora,"  said  Luigi,  "  there 
is  a  great  funeral  in  the  church  on  that  street."  Now 
a  funeral  was  the  very  thing  we  had  wanted  to  see  I 
We  had  seen  how  Venetians  began,  and  we  had  curios- 
ity as  to  their  end !  We  had  asked  Luigi,  the  day  before, 
if  he  could  not  find  a  funeral  for  us,  and  he  had  replied 
quite  sadly  that  funerals  were  just  now  out  of  season. 
Nobody  died  in  Venice  in  the  spring !  We  did  not 
wonder  that  nobody  wanted  to ;  but  still  it  seemed  a 
little  queer,  looked  at  from  a  statistical  point  of  view, 
that  nobody  did. 

Howover,  here  was  a  funeral,  ready  to  his  hand,  and 
a  grand  one  too.  We  hurried  down  the  little  street ; 
every  house  had  the  national  flag  hanging  from  a  win- 
dow, and  the  staff  wreathed  with  crape ;  people  were 
all  hurrying  in  the  same  direction ;  in  a  few  moments 
we  saw  a  bridge  crowded  with  men  and  women,  all 
looking  eagerly  down  the  canal  I  "  O,"  said  we,  "  we 
are  just  in  time ;  the  funeral  cortege  is  coming  up 
in  gondolas " ;  so  we  pushed  and  elbowed  in  among 
them,  and  looked  down  the  canal  too  !  Nothing  to  be 
seen,  and  while  we  were  looking,  the  crowd  dissolved 
and  left  us.  That  is  the  most  mysterious  thing  about 
an  Itahan  crowd ;  it  gathers  dense  and  black  and  reso- 
lute in  five  seconds  from  nowhere,  and  in  five  seconds 
more  it  has  gone  like  a  cloud,  and  no  trace  of  it  left, 
and  why  it  went  or  why  it  came  you  will  never  know, 
neither  does  it  know  itself  I 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


203 


Again  and  again  I  have  asked  a  man  or  a  woman 
•why  they  were  waiting,  and  they  have  answered  with 
a  laugh,  "  Because  there  are  many  people  here !  " 
Lamb-like  children ! 

The  church  was  near  and  we  ran  there,  hoping  to 
catch  the  funeral  yet.  The  walls  were  hung  with 
black;  great  pyramids  of  white  flowers  on  the  altar; 
a  mass  going  on,  and  many  people  kneeling;  so  we 
sat  down.  In  a  few  minutes  two  men  came  behind 
us  with  a  ladder,  and  began  to  take  down  the  black 
hangings  I  This  looked  unpromising,  and  at  last  we 
did  what  it  would  have  been  sensible  to  do  at  first, 
asked  if  there  were  a  funeral  to  take  place  there.  It 
had  happened  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  now, 
I  suppose,  they  were  saying  masses  for  the  soul !  The 
men  flew  about,  tearing  down  the  black  cambric  with 
most  unseemly  haste,  and  scattering  dust  on  every- 
body's head,  and  we  walked  away  quite  crestfallen. 

It  was  a  most  picturesque  little  street,  about  six  feet 
wide,  and  set  thick  with  stores  on  each  side;  bread- 
stores  with  piles,  of  all  imaginable  shapes  and  colors,  of 
bread  on  the  open  window-sills,  (everybody  keeps  store 
on  the  window-sill  or  the  door-step  here  I )  great  bas- 
kets of  boiled  beets,  round  and  flat  like  pancakes ;  and 
young  potatoes,  size  of  nutmegs,  also  boiled  ready  to 
eat,  were  on  every  corner.  Stockings  and  lace  collars 
and  China  toys  and  yellow  handkerchiefs  hung  and 
swung  and  stood  and  waved  to  right  and  left  of  the 
beets  and  potatoes.  A  big  butcher  was  asleep  in  his 
little  cupboard  of  a  store,  and  on  his  window-sill  stood 
six  round  earthen  cups  of  what  I  think  must  have  been 
the  dreadful  blood-puddings  I  have  heard  of;  it  looked 
simply  like  blood  cooled,  with  stiffened  bubbles  on  top  1 
It  made  you  faint  to  think  that  it  could  be  put  there  to 
sell  to  human  beings.  Then  came  a  fish  trattoria,  —  a 
scene  for  Rembrandt  to  paint,  —  a  dark  cavern  of  a  shop, 
lit  only  from  one  door  and  window  in  front;  a  stone 
furnace  in  the  rear,  from  which  came  a  fiery  red  glow; 


204     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

two  men,  with  arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  standing  in 
this  fireUght,  frying  fish!  crockery  plates  set  up  in 
rows  on  stone  ledges  above  the  fire ;  and  flat  wicker- 
work  platters  of  fish,  round,  long,  flat,  whole,  sUced, 
curled,  straight,  floured,  and  peppered,  ready  to  fry, 
standing  in  tottering  piles  in  the  window !  This  was  a 
pictui-e,  and  I  stayed  so  long  to  look  at  it  I  nearly  got  lost 
going  back  to  the  gondola  alone.  Then  I  bought  out  of 
another  window  a  big  round  cracker,  which  I  hoped 
was  made  out  of  unbolted  wheat ;  but  it  proved  sour 
and  uneatable,  like  everything  else  we  find  here,  except 
the  dazzling  white  fine  bread  of  the  hotels,  which  is 
sweet  simply  because  it  is  lifeless,  and  has  no  more 
nutrition  in  it  than  so  much  cobweb. 

As  we  rowed  home,  Luigi  told  us  all  about  the  fu- 
neral. He  had  been  gossiping  with  the  street  in  our 
absence,  and  had  found  out  that  it  was  the  funeral  of 
a  Countess  Somebody,  who  had  been  very  patriotic, 
had  run  great  risks  in  the  times  of  the  wars,  had  been 
three  times  in  the  Austrian  prisons,  and  had  lost  most 
of  her  property  in  consequence  1  She  was  much  beloved 
by  the  people,  hence  the  flags  and  the  kneeling  crowds 
at  the  mass.  Some  day  he  is  to  take  us  to  see  the  house 
in  which  she  died ;  though  why  we  want  to  see  it  I  can- 
not imagine. 

Sunday  the  Sixth.  —  0,  if  I  could  but  catch  these 
swift  days  and  clip  their  wings  I  Dear  people,  will  you 
not  all  come  to  Venice  in  spring,  some  year  of  your 
years,  and  have  our  Luigi  for  gondolier,  and  be  as  con- 
tent as  we  ?  All  I  can  write  you  is  dusty,  dry.  You 
do  not  know  in  the  least  what  I  have  seen.  For  in- 
stance, on  the  Thursday  which  followed  the  Wednesday 
of  the  good  Countess's  funeral,  did  I  not  spend  a  whole 
forenoon  in  the  rooms  of  Rieti,  a  Jew  with  spectacles, 
who  hires  a  palace  to  keep  store  in,  and  who  fattens  on 
the  decay  of  Venetian  families,  buying  up  every  shred 
of  thing  which  they  have  to  sell,  and  setting  them,  one 
p-bove  another,  in  these  palace  rooms,  to  be  sold  again 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


205 


to  American  men  and  women  ?  And  would  not  the 
catalogue  of  the  beautiful  and  weird  and  uncanny 
old  things  i saw  there  fill  a  volume?  Chairs  and  tables 
and  chests  and  sideboards  and  mirrors,  from  time  of 
Doges  down !  Glass  and  china  and  tapestry ;  work- 
boxes  and  crickets  and  candlesticks  and  pans  and  busts 
and  gravestones !  Yes,  old  gravestones  there  were, 
and  hall  lamps,  and  an  old  medicine-chest,  out  of  which 
came  dusty  scent  of  poisons  which  helped  to  thin  out 
the  eleventh  century,  I  am  sure!  The  old  leather 
case  was  dropping  and  crumbling  to  pieces,  and  the 
green  baize  lining  seemed  half  turned  to  fungus.  It 
was  most  curiously  studded  with  silver  nails,  and  surely 
belonged  to  a  physician  of  degree. 

There  are  six  of  these  stores  of  antiquity  and  works 
of  art  here,  and  we  have  been  to  four  of  them,  for  my 
lucky  friends  have  a  house,  and  a  room  to  be  refur- 
nished. I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  had  "  the  run  "  of  all  the 
Venetian  palaces  from  the  tenth  to  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. I  have  lifted  off  the  lids  of  their  soup-tureens, 
tried  the  hinges  and  handles  of  their  sideboards,  and 
pulled  out  all  their  secret  drawers.  I  only  wish  I  had  a 
thousand  dollars  to  spend  to-morrow  morning  in  small 
articles  which  would  never  be  missed  out  of  these  be- 
wildering confusions.  I  would  buy  for  one  of  you  a 
stool,  whose  seat  should  be  crimson,  and  should  be  held 
up  by  a  black  Moor,  a  cunning  little  fellow  six  years 
old,  called  Abdalla,  I  "  calculate,"  and  clothed  as  to 
the  loins  in  a  tunic  of  green  and  silver.  Should  you 
mind  sitting  on  him  ?  He  looks  very  happy,  and  shows 
all  his  teeth.  For  another,  you  who  give  little  dinners, 
I  would  buy  a  fish,  a  China  fish,  to  hold  your  salmon ; 
the  platter  is  gay  with  flowers ;  the  fish  is  purple,  — 
mullet,  perhaps ;  at  any  rate  it  is  purple  and  silver,  and 
a  lemon  at  top  of  him  for  a  handle,  and  by  the  lemon 
you  lift  off  his  upper  half,  and  there  will  be  your  sal- 
mon ;  and  what  Doge  ever  had  so  good  a  fish  out  of  it 
before  you  !     For  you  who  have  made  a  million  since  I 


2o6     ENCYCLICALS  O^  A    TRAVELLER. 

came  away  —  ah  \  for  you,  my  dear,  there  is  a  set  ol 
furniture  in  ebony  inlaid  with  white  ivory  tablets,  and 
the  tablets  covered  with  fantastic  designs  and  patterns, 
like  fine  etchings!  Such  a  little  wardrobe  of  drawers 
as  stands  on  a  table  of  this  set,  three  feet  bigli,  doors 
always  to  be  kept  open,  aiid  twenty  little  drawers 
ready  to  hold  all  your  letters  1  If  you  like  it  better, 
there  is  a  set  of  brown  nut-wood  inlaid  more  elabo- 
rately with  ivory,  not  an  inch  left  plain,  and  all  sorts 
of  carved  ivory  figures  set  in  the  impossible  places. 
These  are  four  things  out  of  thousands ,  but  I  can  tell 
you  no  more,  because  in  the  afternoon  we  went  to 
Tbrcello,  and  that  is  better  worth  talking  over. 

I  am  tempted  to  put  in  a  little  guide-book  about 
Torcello,  because  I  knew  so  little  about  it  myself 
before  coming  here  that  I  think  some  of  you  may  be 
equally  ignorant.  But  I  remember  that  I  promised 
never  to  do  guidu-book  at  all,  and  so  I  will  not  yield  to 
the  temptation  \  You  will  know  that  it  is  an  island, 
and  that  before  Venice  was  Torcello,  and  had  churches 
and  bishops  and  palaces ;  it  will  be  easier  for  you  to 
believe  all  this  than  it  is  for  me,  —  though,  to  be  sure,  I 
have  seen  the  Cathedral  and  one  church  and  a  bit  of 
one  palace,  but,  for  all  the  rest,  I  find  no  real  faith  ia 
my  heart.  Nothing  in  all  Rome,  not  even  the  loveliest 
old  aqueduct  stones  in  the  farthest  silence  of  the  cam- 
pagna,  ever  gave  me  such  sense  of  desolation,  of  for- 
gotten life,  as  the  atmosphere  of  this  little  island.  We 
sailed  to  it  through  sunshine,  —  swiftly  too,  for  we  had 
taken  an  extra  rower.  The  lagoon  was  astir  with  fish- 
ing people,  and  the  smoke  of  work  went  up  from 
Murano,  as  we  j>assed  it,  and  bells  rang  from  old  towers 
on  two  other  islands  as  we  drew  near  Torcello.  We 
had  been  told  that  many  of  the  great  barges  which  we 
had  seen  at  sunset  ccnning  down  the  Grand  Canal, 
loaded  with  cherries  and  salads  and  artichokes,  and 
all  sorts  of  good  garden  things,  were  bringing  vegeta- 
bles from  Torcello;  so  we  thought  we  were  going  to 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


207 


a  thrifty  suburb  of  Venice  to  f.nd  som3  old  churches 
we  knew,  but  we  supposed  to  breathe  the  air  of  to- 
day. 

We  had  not  ghded  ten  steps  into  the  silent  Torcello 
canal  before  we  felt  the  hush  of  a  burial-place.  So 
low  lay  the  fields,  lapping  up  the  slow  green  water, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  we  might  slip  over  at  any  minute, 
and  be  floating  above  the  grass.  The  silence  was  inde- 
scribable ;  old  stone  bridges  spanned  the  canal,  and  as 
we  rowed  under  them  the  grass  nodded  down  to  us 
from  the  sides  and  the  top !  Had  human  feet  ever 
brushed  it  ?  We  grew  afraid ;  the  white  honeysuckle 
was  in  blossom  ;  and  raspberry-bushes,  with  pink  flow- 
ers, made  long  thickets  of  hedge,  over  which  here  and 
there  a  scarlet  pomegranate  looked,  as  if  holding  court ; 
bits  of  old  stone-work  gleamed  out  among  these  wild 
growths;  hardly  more  than  a  door-step  at  a  time,  a 
corner-stone,  or  a  few  inches  of  wall,  all  so  sunk,  so 
bedded  in  the  green,  that  but  for  knowing  that  a  city 
and  palaces  had  stood  there  we  should  have  thought 
them  no  more  than  natural  stones.  After  a  time  we 
found  a  house  or  two;  then  an  old  bell- tower  rising 
up  suddenly  and  ghost-like  in  the  waste,  walled  in  as 
if  it  were  the  keep  of  the  powers  and  principalities  of 
the  air  I  Then  we  came  on  a  little  brood  of  duckUng.s, 
—  they  looked  more  human  than  you  could  conceive,  — 
and  then,  after  another  turn,  on  a  Custom  House !  This 
took  our  breath  away.  I  do  not  know  yet  what  it 
meant.  If  I  were  the  right  sort  of  traveller  I  should 
have  found  out.  But  its  stone  steps  answered  for  us  to 
land  on,  and  nobody  stopped  either  us  or  the  ducks 
who  stepped  on  shore  with  us ;  and  we  all  crept  along 
together.  I  felt  somehow  as  if  they  were  so  much 
saifer  than  we. 

An  old  woman,  whom  I  almost  believe  to  have  been 
alive,  showed  us  the  old  church  of  Santa  Fosca,  and  the 
Cathedral.  I  can't  tell  you  about  them.  Nobody 
could.     The  church  is  a  dome  on  top  of  a  Greek  cros^ 


2o8     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  a  portico  with  tumbling  pillars  all  around  it.  The 
cathedral  stands  close,  almost  joins  the  church,  and  haa 
a  floor  of  mosaic,  which  makes  St.  Mark's  look  new  ; 
high  marble  reading-desks ;  and  ai-ound  the  semi-circu- 
lar apse,  behind  the  high  altar,  marble  seats  rising  up 
in  tiers  one  above  the  other,  like  the  Coliseum  ;  in  the 
niddle,  the  Bishop's  chair,  and  all  so  old  that  it  looked 
)rumbling,  —  though  it  never  can  crumble,  and  it  is  not 
io  very  old,  after  all,  not  more  than  a  thousand  years ; 
3ut  it  feels,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  older  than  any- 
thing I  ever  saw.  Fresh  annunciation  lilies  were  on 
avery  altar ;  their  odor  filled  the  air,  and  drowned  out 
ihe  smell  of  fungus ;  the  old  woman's  shoes  clapped, 
clapped  at  the  heel  with  every  step  she  took,  and 
echoed  in  the  dark  corners. 

Down  in  the  crypt  there  was  a  poor  old  wooden 
Christ,  all  cobwebs  and  dust,  —  a  most  pitiful  thing.  As 
we  walked  by  she  kissed  it,  and  drew  her  withered 
hands  down  the  legs  to  the  feet  with  a  lingering  touch 
of  tenderness  and  passionate  devotion  which  I  never 
saw  equalled,  and  which  made  my  eyes  wet  for  some 
mmutes.  It  must  be  that  which  has  kept  her  alive  in 
Torcello,  —  this  poor,  haggard,  hungry  old  soul.  The 
air  is  poison  there!  It  was  that  which  drove  the  peo- 
ple away,  and  put  this  melancholy  end  to  the  city; 
only  a  few  poor  souls  live  there  now,  who  are  too  poor 
to  live  anywhere  else,  and  cannot,  perhaps,  resist  the 
temptation  of  ground  to  cultivate;  for  green  things 
thrive  and  produce  in  Torcello,  though  all  the  children 
look  as  if  they  had  just  left  their  beds  for  the  first  time 
after  some  terrible  illness.  They  crowded  round  us, 
and  begged,  more  by  their  hollow  eyes  than  by  their 
words.  I  sat  down  in  a  great  rough  stone  chair  which 
stands  in  an  open  space  before  the  cathedral,  and  in 
front  of  the  old  bit  of  a  stone  house  in  which  the 
Bishop  lived,  and  gave  all  the  children  bonbons  which 
I  had  cribbed  from  our  hotel  dinner,  —  a  questionable 
charity,  I  know,  but  I  had  no  pennies  I  and  beggars 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TKA  VELLER. 


209 


have  such  digestions  in  Italy,  one  feels  less  scruple 
about  giving  them  unwholesome  sweets. 

One  little  girl,  six  or  seven  years  old,  with  great 
gaunt  brown  eyes,  and  a  weight  of  tangled  auburn- 
black  hair,  grasped  hers  firm  in  her  little  hand,  and 
never  opened  it.  The  other  children  were  tearing 
open  the  bright  papers,  and  munching  down  the  candy, 
like  monkeys.  She  looked  at  them  wistfully,  but  did 
not  offer  to  touch  hers.  I  explained  to  her  that  it  was 
good  to  eat,  and  tried  to  make  her  taste  it ;  at  last, 
after  I  had  asked  her  a  dozen  times  why  she  did  not 
eat  it,  she  whispered  so  I  could  but  just  catch  the 
words,  —  she  was  so  frightened,  —  that  she  kept  it  for 
her  little  brother  !  Did  n't  I  turn  my  pocket  wrong 
side  out,  and  find  one  more  for  that  little  angel?  and 
did  n't  she  bite  into  it  in  about  the  shortest  second  ? 
and  do  you  think  I  believe  in  original  depravity  ?  As 
I  turned  back  for  my  last  look  at  the  desolate  grass- 
grown  piazza,  and  the  cathedral,  and  the  church,  and 
the  bell-tower,  the  children  were  all  scrambling  to  get 
up  into  the  stone  chair  (they  call  it  Attila's  chair,  —  be- 
cause he  never  sat  in  it,  I  suppose)  ;  three  were  already 
in,  two  more  climbing  up,  and  a  poor  little  two-year- 
old  tugging  away  at  one  of  the  six  legs  hanging  down 
in  front,  and  trying  in  vain  to  lift  himself  up  by  it. 

Yesterday  I  was  heroic,  stayed  in  the  house,  and  wrote 
all  the  forenoon.  In  the  afternoon  we  rowed  over  to 
the  Enchanted  Island,  that  is  the  Lido ;  the  girls  and 

Mrs.  and  Miss  T went  into  the  water  in  Venetian 

bathing-dresses,  hired  for  two  francs,  and  swam  about 
as  if  they  had  been  brides  of  the  Adriatic  all  their 
lives !  I  sat  on  an  upper  stair  and  watched  them  and 
the  sea ;  mostly  the  sea,  which  was  pale,  soft  gray  in 
the  distance,  and  green  close  at  my  feet.  There  were 
many  people  rowing  back  and  forth  on  it,  and  some  of 
their  sails  were  orange,  and  some  looked  rose-pink 
against  the  sky.  Why  do  not  all  sailors  have  orange 
and  pink  sails,  I  wonder  ?  it  is  all  a  sail  needs  to  make 


21G      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

it  aft  beautiful  as  a  cloud,  and  it  signifies  so  much 
more. 

Sunday  the  Thirteenth.  —  This  Sunday  was  the  anni- 
versary of  the  adoption  of  the  Constitution  by  Italy,  and 
all  the  houses  were  bright  with  flags ;  the  square  of  St. 
Mark's  was  gay  with  red  and  green  and  white,  and  in 
the  evening  there  was  to  be  music  on  the  canal.  We 
commissioned  Luigi  to  buy  an  Italian  flag  for  our  gon- 
dola, to  show  our  sympathy  with  freedom,  and  antici- 
pated a  fine  night  on  the  water.  Alas !  at  six  o'clock 
the  sky  was  black,  and  it  thundered  mutteringly  in  the 
east;  however,  we  would  not  be  kept  in,  even  by  its 
beginning  to  sprinkle  as  we  took  our  seats  in  the  gon- 
dola; actually  under  umbrellas  we  rowed  up  to  the 
Rialto,  and  displayed  our  flag.  Some  of  the  gondoliers 
saluted  us  as  we  passed,  and  they  all  looked  pleased 
and  smiled. 

The  band  was  playing  on  a  great  barge  in  fi-ont  of 
the  prefect's  house,  and  a  few  determined  people  were 
creeping  about  under  umbrellas,  as  we  were;  but  it 
was  a  failure.  The  sky  grew  blacker  and  the  drops 
bigger,  and,  against  our  wills,  we  went  home.  To  be 
out  in  the  rain  in  Venice  is  too  much  to  be  borne  by 
the  stoutest  soul.  To  be  between  two  fires  is  always 
accounted  a  bad  thing  in  battle ;  but  to  be  between 
two  waters  is  as  bad.  Going  home  we  passed  a  grave- 
looking  American  family,  singing  psalm-tunes  in  their 
gondola.  It  sounded  very  pleasantly,  but  I  could  not 
resist  the  suspicion  that  it  was  a  kind  of  a  sop  to  their 
consciences  for  being  out  on  the  Grand  Canal  so  near 
sunset  of  a  Sunday. 

Wednesday  went  for  looking  over  photographs  in 
the  morning,  and  for  three  or  four  not  especially  inter- 
esting churches  in  the  afternoon  ;  but  you  know,  with- 
out my  taking  time  to  say  it,  that  simply  to  go  from  one 
place  to  another,  in  this  wonderful  sea-city,  is  a  delight 
in  itself  If  it  waited  for  me  to  say  where  we  should 
go,  we  should  never  go  anywhere.     It  never  seems  to 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     211 

me  to  make  the  least  difference.  I  feel  as  if  the  gondola 
knew,  and  would  go  of  itself  I  should  sink  down,  if  I 
were  alone,  and  give  no  orders  to  the  invisible  Luigi. 

Luckily  for  me,  N and  P are  more  wise.  N 

is  our  guide,  and  has  always  something  to  propose  for  each 
day,  which  is  just  the  best  thing  to  do.  Thanks  to  her, 
we  have  in  this  four  weeks  seen  Venice  most  thorough- 
ly. On  Thursday  we  spent  the  whole  morning  in  the 
Academy,  with  the  beloved  pictures.  I  feel  that  I  am 
so  entirely  ignorant  of  art,  that  I  have  hardly  right  tO' 
say  what  I  think  about  any  picture.  But  I  am  sure  of 
one  thing :  pictures  and  poems  are  one.  All  the  pic- 
tures I  have  seen  which  have  impressed  me  are  poems  ; 
and  I  see  that  even  to  my  ignorance  it  becomes  clearer 
and  clearer  in  what  measure  they  are  written.  Also,  I 
see  that  it  is  as  sUly  to  like,  or  even  to  be  ready  to  like, 
all  the  pictures  painted  by  one  man,  simply  because  they 
are  his,  as  it  is  to  believe  that  one's  favorite  poet  could 
not  write  a  poor  thing.  Did  not  Browning  write  "  Mr. 
Sludge  the  Medium,"  and  Wordsworth  "Peter  BeU"? 
I  am  wondering  about  many  things  in  these  days,  of 
which  I  have  nobody  here  to  ask,  and  no  books  to  help 
me.  I  am  sure  that  if  one  knew  literature  and  art  well 
enough,  close  parallels  could  be  drawn  out  between 
poems  and  pictures ;  and  I  wonder  if  there  would  not 
be  historical  agreements  too.  Some  of  you  who  know, 
write  and  tell  me  what  you  think  about  this.  Now,  I 
find  Carpaccio  to  be  a  man  who  painted  ballads  I  All 
his  pictures  have  the  ring  and  the  movement,  with  the 
light  touch.  There  is  a  series  of  them  in  the  Academy, 
which  tell  the  story  of  St.  Ursula.  I  sit  and  read  it  over 
and  over  and  over,  as  you  can,  "  How  they  brought  the 
Good  News  to  G-hent."  He  does  not  forget  what  the 
little  page  said,  nor  that  on  that  day  the  maiden  was  ill 
at  ease ;  nor  that  while  the  ambassadors  asked  the  king 
for  the  hand  of  his  daughter,  outside  of  the  gate  sat 
an  old  stern  woman  who  liked  not  these  foreign  woo- 
ings,  and  muttered  that  ill  would  come.     Every  picture 


2T2      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

is  a  complete  ballad  in  itself;  as  you  look  at  them,  you 
involuntarily  walk  with  steps  set  to  the  sound  of  a 
singer. 

Then  there  is  Bellini,  whose  pictures  are  gentle  and 
tender,  and  are  like  quaint  sacred  songs.  Always  he 
puts  at  base  of  the  pictures  little  angels  or  babies  sitting 
with  crossed  legs,  and  playing  on  lutes  the  accompani- 
ment to  the  song.  Most  of  his  pictures  are  called 
"  Madonna  with  two  Saints,"  "  Madonna  with  four 
Saints,"  Madonna  and  Child,"  etc.,  etc.  I  always  think 
of  them  as  "  The  true  Song  of  the  Day  when  Catharine 
and  Agatha  met  Mary  and  the  Child  Jesus,"  or  "  The 
G-reeting  of  St.  Agnes  to  the  Infant  Lord,"  or  "  The 
Words  of  Sts.  Jerome  and  Christopher  to  Augustine  the 
Monk."  But  for  all  this  Bellini  has  painted  many  Ma- 
donnas whose  faces  are  like  faces  of  wood ;  and  one 
frightful  picture  of  his  has  in  the  clouds  over  the  Madon- 
na's head  seven  cherub  heads  of  fiery  scarlet,  like  lob- 
ster !  There  are  two  pictures  in  the  Academy  by  a 
Martino  da  Udine,  a  rare  man  of  Bellini's  day  and 
school,  who  has  left  only  few  things.  One  of  these  is  the 
Angel  of  the  Annunciation ;  the  other  is  a  Madonna 
—  both  single  figures,  severe,  alone,  no  accessories,  but 
an  air  of  heaven  about  the  one,  and  of  sanctified  earth 
in  the  other,  which  it  is  good  to  see.  I  know  lines  in 
George  Herbert  —  written,  is  it  one  hundred  or  more 
years  later  ?  —  which  are  like  these  pictures.  Titian's 
single  heads  and  single  figures  are  the  sonnets,  either 
solemn  and  slow,  with  the  whole  of  the  man's  life  con- 
centrated into  that  day's  voice,  or  vivid  fiery,  like  the 
passionate  outpouring  of  one  moment  I  His  "  Presen- 
tation of  the  Little  Virgin  at  the  Temple  "  is  the  picture 
I  like  best  of  all  the  pictures  I  have  yet  seen,  except 
the  "  Last  Communion  of  St.  Jerome,"  by  Domenichino, 
in  Rome.  It  is  a  grand  epic  poem.  There  is  the 
whole  of  Jerusalem  and  the  worship  of  the  Temple  in 
the  figures  of  the  high-priests,  all  Jewry  in  the  crowd 
below,  and  all  Christianity  and  redemption  in  the  figure 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


213 


of  the  little  Virgin.  All  my  life,  blue  will  be  more  sacred 
to  me  by  reason  of  this  little  Virgin's  gown !  And  as  foi 
red,  it  has  always  been  to  me  like  the  key-note  of  a  uni- 
verse of  hidden  things,  like  a  very  spell  in  the  air ;  and 
now  I  know  that  Titian  had  been  taken  inside  of  its  mys- 
tery, and  signed  with  its  sign.  Every  day  I  see  men 
in  the  Academy  sitting  down  calmly  to  copy  Titian's 
red  !  and  I  wonder  at"  their  being  suffered  to  go  about 
without  keepers. 

From  the  Academy  we  went  to  the  house  of  two  old 

Venetian  ladies,  sisters  of  an  artist  whom  P and 

N knew  when  they  were  here  before,  and  who 

made  a  copy  of  one  of  Bellini's  pictures  for  them.  She 
was  sick  and  deformed  and  poor,  but  had  great  talent  as 
a  copyist,  and  had  worked  with  great  industry,  for  all 
the  rooms  of  the  little  house  were  hung  with  her  draw- 
ings and  paintings.  She  died  some  two  years  ago, 
and  these  two  poor  old  sisters  were  so  gratified  and 
touched  at  her  being  remembered  and  sought  out  by 
strangers  for  whom  she  had  painted,  that  it  was  hard 
to  know  what  to  say  to  them,  especially  if  you  did 
not  know  many  words  of  their  language !  But  the 
sight  of  the  house  and  their  way  of  living  was  most 
interesting.  After  all,  one  such  interior  picture  is 
worth  scores  of  common  outside  views;  they  must 
once  have  "  seen  better  days,"  —  everything  in  their 
manner  and  surroundings  showed  this.  They  have 
now  no  servant,  and  one  sister  could  not  see  us  this 
morning.  We  knew  by  the  stir  and  the  odors  that 
she  was  cooking  their  dinner ;  and  who  but  she  could 
it  have  been  who  snatched  and  hid  the  string  of  onions 
which,  when  we  arrived,  was  hanging  on  the  hat-rack 
in  the  front  hall,  — by  side  of  an  old  cotton  umbrella !  — 
and  when  we  went  away  was  no  longer  there  ?  The 
sister  we  saw  was  perhaps  seventy  years  old.  Her 
eyes  were  faded,  and  her  lips  very  shaky,  but  she 
must  once  have  been  handsome ;  and  the  woman  had 
not  by  any  means  died  out  of  her  old  heart,  for  when 


ZI4     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

I  recognized  as  her  portrait  the  face  of  a  handsome 
woman  of  not  more  than  thirty-five,  among  her  sister's 
paintings  on  the  walls  of  the  little  parlor,  her  wrinkled 
cheeks  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  she  smiled  a  little  as 
she  might  have  smiled  the  day  the  picture  was  painted. 

She  wore,  just  as  such  pitiful  "  genteel "  old  ladies  do 
at  home,  —  and,  I  suppose,  all  the  world  over,  —  skimpy 
black  clothes,  gray  with  age,  and  a  forlorn,  dusty  black 
lace  thing  on  the  back  of  her  head,  —  they  always 
look  more  like  palls  than  like  caps  on  that  kind  of  old 
lady.  They  asked  high  prices  for  their  sister's  pictures, 
and  I  am  afraid  they  will  not  sell  all  of  them.  The 
girls  bought  a  lovely  little  picture  of  a  picturesque  pal- 
ace on  the  Grand  Canal,  at  which  we  look  almost  every 
afternoon.  They  could  hardly  have  found  a  more  vivid 
bit  of  Venice  to  carry  away  with  them  than  this  little 
sketch  by  the  poor  dead  RaiFaella. 

In  the  afternoon  we  went  into  the  house  of  another 
Venetian  family.  Such  a  contrast  I  This  family's 
name  is  Giovanelli ;  and  the  Prince  Giovanelli  mar- 
ried a  Contarini,  and,  of  the  Contarinis,  five  have  been 
doges  I  and  the  house  in  which  this  Giovanelli  and 
Contarini  live  is  the  most  splendid  palace  in  Venice. 
Did  we  not  do  well  to  go  to  the  poor  old  sisters  first? 
It  was  like  the  one  bit  of  red  which  Titian  throws  in 
at  last,  in  the  distance  of  his  pictures,  which  brings  all 
the  other  colors  out.  But  you  see  plainly  that  of  thia 
palace  I  cannot  tell  you  much,  because  there  is  a  limit 
to  a  letter,  though  you  may  think  I  don't  know  it ; 
neither  did  I  half  tell  you  about  the  other  little  home. 
I  shall  remember  it  quite  as  long  as  the  grand  one. 
Mrs.  Contarini  Giovanelli  is  the  only  palace-owning 
lady  that  I  have  envied.  I  would  not  have  taken  one 
of  the  superb  palaces  in  Genoa  as  a  gift,  if  I  were  to  be 
compelled  to  stay  in  their  great  ghostly  rooms.  But 
this  Giovanelli  palace,  superb  as  it  is,  is  cosey.  Think 
of  that !  —  a  cosey  palace  I  —  a  boudoir  of  blue,  blue 
damask  from  ceiling  to  floor,  and  a  ceiling  like  a  hollow 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


215 


shell,  and  a  rounding  blue  satin  sofa,  on  which  she  sits 
and  mends  her  husband's  shirts.  How  do  T  know  ? 
By  this  token,  that  in  a  costly  glass  toy  on  a  little 
table  before  the  sofa,  and  among  a  thousand  dollars'  or 
80  worth  of  other  trifles  in  the  way  of  baskets  and 
statuettes  and  boxes,  were  three  old  shirt-bosom  but- 
tons ! !  close  to  her  work-basket,  —  which  might  have 
been  yours  or  mine,  it  was  so  neat  aod  simple.  Their 
bedroom  is  regal,  —  ebony  and  yellow  damask  ;  but  — 
O  the  but,  even  in  a  palace !  —  on  this  gorgeous  ebony 
stood,  in  easy  reach  from  one  of  the  yellow  satin  beds, 
cold-cream  and  —  a  bottle  of  rnagnesia  I  Heartburn, 
you  see,  even  for  a  descendant  of  doges,  in  this  dream 
of  a  palace.  I,  who  never  had  heartburn,  and  would 
die  before  I  took  magnesia^  chuckled  and  passed  on. 

A  crimson  room,  satin  tapestry,  on  walls  with  raised 
velvet  figures ;  a  yellow-and-white  room,  the  tapestry 
woven  to  fit,  with  the  coat  of  arms  wrought  in  here 
and  there;  a  picture-gallery  hung  with  claret  velvet, 
and  holding  rare  pictures,  —  Titian  and  Veronese  and 
Bellini  and  Durer  and  Van  Dyck  and  Rembrandt;  a 
dining-room  with  carvings  and  purple  velvet  and  China, 
which  was  a  study  in  itself;  a  sitting-room  with  a 
grand  piano  and  a  marvellous  bird-cage  of  gay  lattice- 
work alternating  with  transparencies,  on  which  were 
painted  morning-glories  and  honeysuckles  I  In  the 
cage,  seven  little  Japanese  birds,  drab  and  scarlet  and 
gray ;  on  the  piano,  cigars  of  several  sorts,  ready  for 
the  prince  after  dinner.  This  is  a  skeleton  glimpse  for 
you  of  the  Giovanelli's  ways  of  living. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  glow  on  the  faces  of  some  of 
Titian's  portraits  of  doges,  which  hang  in  the  crimson 
room ;  not  all  the  heat  of  the  red  tapestry  of  Lyons 
can  dull  the  glow  of  the  orange  and  red  mantles,  or 
approach  the  kindling  fire  in  the  faces. 

"  Is  there  a  library  ?  "  said  we. 

"  No,"  said  the  courteous  and  elegant  creature,  called 
servant,  who  had  showed  us  his  master's  house.    And 


ai6     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

somehow  I  instantly  felt  as  if  it  had  been  quite  imper- 
tinent to  ask,  and  as  if  perhaps,  after  all,  books  were  a 
superfluous  indulgence.  The  prince  must  read,  for  he 
is  "Syndic  of  Venice"  and  "Senator  of  Italy";  but 
not  a  book  did  we  see,  except  some  ornamental  ones  to 
match  the  crimson  furniture. 

Yesterday,  two  more  churches, —  San  Zaccaria,  which 
is  the  first  church  in  Venice  I  have  liked  ;  and  San  Gior- 
gio degli  Schiavoni,  a  little  one-room,  upper-chamber 
sort  of  a  church,  in  an  out-of-the-way  quarter  where 
are  nine  quaint  old  pictures  by  my  favorite  ballad-man, 
Carpaccio,  sung  when  he  was  young ;  with  too  many 
adjectives,  but  ringing,  ringing  like  all  the  rest.  I 
shall  grow  to  remember  his  things  better  than  any 
others  if  I  study  them  much  more.  That  also  is  like  the 
hold  a  ballad  gets  on  you  ;  it  haunts  your  downsitting 
and  uprising,  as  no  other  verse  can. 

I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  about  Murano.  "We 
rowed  over  there  on  Saturday  afternoon  to  see  the 
famous  glass-works.  The  minute  you  get  away  from 
Venice,  and  row  off  towards  the  other  islands,  it  all 
looks  more  and  more  unreal;  the  islands  look  like  noth- 
ing but  mirages,  and  Venice  itself  looks  like  a  gigantic 
colored  phantasm,  just  that  minute  set  up  against  the 
sky  by  some  magician.  You  have  not  the  least  faith 
in  getting  anywhere,  unless  possibly  you  might  be  cast 
up,  gondola  and  all,  like  a  bit  of  sea-weed,  at  foot  of 
the  Apennines  or  Alps  or  Himalayas,  whichever  they 
are,  that  stand  up  sharp  and  real  along  the  coast, 
whether  south  or  west  I  do  not  know,  —  I  can't  find 
out,  I  never  shall ;  but  there  they  are,  the  only  actual- 
looking  things  to  be  seen.  You  feel  as  if  the  world 
began  at  their  base,  and  you  were  drifting  around  outside, 
part  of  a  great  miracle-play.  This  is  not  wild  talk;  it  is 
the  way  everybody  must  feel  after  half  an  hour  of  gon- 
dola in  these  waters.  Perhaps  they  do  not  analyze  their 
bewilderment  so  closely  as  I  have;  but  if  they  did  they 
would  find  it  all  there.     I  see  it  all  in  their  faces  as  they 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


217 


glide  by,  even  in  the  most  stolid  and  Jewish  of  them 
all. 

Well,  after  three  quarters  of  an  hour  of  this,  we 
bumped  up  against  a  wharf,  which  did  not  really  elude 
us  and  fade  out  of  sight,  and  a  very  tangible  old  beggar 
hooked  us  fast,  and  we  stepped  out  on  the  thin  crust  of 
stone,  over  Murano  piers,  and  began  to  look  for  glass- 
houses. Of  course  we  were  pounced  on  instantly  by 
Murano  loafers,  who  scented  our  errand  and  our  inex- 
perience. We  are  a  tempting-looking  trio,  —  three  not 
bad-looking  women,  tolerably  well  dressed,  and  usually 
on  the  broad  laugh,  with  any  amount  of  desire  for  in- 
formation in  our  faces.  Of  course  we  are  as  plainly 
meant  for  custodi  and  cicironi  as  fish  are  for  gulls ;  but 
we  are  growing  sharp  in  Venice,  there  is  too  much  of 
it  here,  and  what  with  Ruskin  and  Howells  and  Murray 
and  Baedeker  we  know  so  much  more  than  the  guides 
do  that  we  are  quite  justified  in  scorning  them.  How- 
ever, in  Murano  we  were  helpless,  and  we  were  led  off 
meekly  as  lambs  by  a  horrible  old  simpleton,  who  pre- 
tended to  understand  us,  but  I  think  did  not  compre- 
hend one  word  we  said.  Into  one  dark  furnace-depth 
after  another  we  plunged,  at  his  heels,  and  into  aisles  of 
astonished-looking  workmen,  and  saw  them  blow  glass 
bottles  (just  as  they  do  in  Sandwich,  Massachusetts),  and 
draw  out  long  hollow  threads  of  fiery  glass,  and  snap 
it  off  like  pipe-stems ;  and  we  paid  odd  francs  here  and 
there  to  people  who  h&d  not  done  anything  to  earn 
them ;  and  we  stood  about  till  we  ached  all  over  and 
got  quite  cross ;  and  then  all  of  a  sudden  we  "  struck  " 
for  lower  wages  and  no  guide ;  frightened  the  sim- 
pleton off  our  track,  jumped  into  our  gondola  and 
rowed  off  to  the  Museum  !  Murano  was  such  an  un- 
canny place,  I  was  horribly  afraid  we  should  be  turned 
into  something  or  other,  and  have  to  stay  there  all  the 
rest  of  our  lives.  It  is  a  kind  of  a  ghost  of  a  poor  re- 
lation of  Venice;  canals  and  houses  and  bridges,  and 
old  carved  corners  and  balconies,  and  black  gondolas, 
10 


2i8      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

but  all  beggarly  and  ghostlike.  The  Museum  was  a 
great  stalwart  building  which  looked  out  of  place  there, 
and  fresh  signs  of  offices  of  one  sort  and  another  on 
the  first  floor  made  us  afraid  we  had  lost  our  way ;  but 
we  soon  found  the  custode,  and  he  trotted  us  about 
through  five  rooms  of  the  most  wonderful  glassware 
we  ever  dreamed  of. 

Do  not  suppose  there  is  anything  which  cannot  be 
made  of  glass  if  you  set  about  it  in  Murano :  chande- 
liers, gigantic  and  of  really  graceful  shapes,  all  glass ; 
tables  which  looked  like  mosaic,  mirrors  framed  in  glass, 
and  roses  and  convolvuluses,  and  green  leaves  wreathed 
about  them,  all  glass;  a  bonnet,  with  daisies  on  the 
top,  and  openwork  lace  strings,  all  glass ;  a  high 
stove-pipe  hat,  light  brown,  quite  pliable,  nothing  but 
glass ;  a  portrait  of  an  old  doge,  frame  and  all  glass ; 
portraits  of  Victor  Emmanuel  and  other  people  by  the 
yard,  run  in  a  long  stick  like  a  stick  of  candy,  and 
wherever  you  sliced  it  off  there  would  be  the  perfect 
portrait,  so  wonderfully  were  the  colors  put  in.  Then 
there  were  all  possible  shapes  and  sorts  and  sizes  of 
vases  and  tumblers  and  pitchers  and  cups  and  candle- 
sticks, white  and  yellow  and  green  and  red  and  opal, 
and  lapis-lazuli  and  malachite ;  some  painted  in  old 
Styles,  the  secret  of  which  is  now  lost ;  some  threaded 
in  and  out  with  threads  of  color,  or  of  white,  as  fine 
as  cobweb  silk ;  —  five  rooms  filled  with  these,  and  many 
others  that  I  do  not  remember. 

When  we  came  home  the  light  was  so  beautiful  on  the 
G-rand  Canal  (0,  if  one  could  be  permitted  to  call  it 
anything  but  a  canal ! )  that  L  could  not  go  in ;  so  we 

dropped  N on  our  watery  door-step,  and  P 

and  I  rowed  off  again  for  the  moonlight.  We  found  a 
great  steam-yacht  anchored  in  front  of  the  Doge's 
palace,  and  the  canal  gay  with  gondolas  and  music.  No 
less  than  the  Viceroy  or  Egypt  had  come  in  the  yacht^ 
and  the  Duke  of  Brunswick  was  in  the  hotel,  and  the 
serenade  was  just  as  good  for  us  as  for  them ;  and  we 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLEK. 


219 


rowed  up  and  down  till  ten  o'clock,  and  heard  the  whole 
of  it,  and  then  we  went  home  silently,  so  as  not  to  break 
up  the  dream. 

To-day  has  been  such  a  day  that  I  have  hardly  cour- 
age to  try  to  tell  it.  I  can  only  give  you  the  barest 
skeleton.  If  I  were  to  really  describe  the  hours,  my 
letter  would  be  forty  pages  long. 

In  the  morning  we  went  to  the  Doge's  palace,  stood 
on  the  Doge's  balcony,  and  looked  seaward;  walked 
over,  I  mean  through,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ;  saw  the  door 
which  shut  the  prisoners  who  went  to  the  Council  of 
Three  from  those  who  went  to  the  Council  of  Ten; 
looked  into  the  cell  where  Marino  Falieri  was  confined, 
and  sat  down  on  Carmagnuola's  bed.  0  the  horror  of 
those  cells !  no  light  except  through  a  small  round  hole, 
by  which  the  food  was  put  in ;  the  door  so  low  I  had 
to  double  to  step  through  it.  The  Mamertine  prisons  in 
Rome  were  not  much  worse.  One  of  these  cells  is  still 
lined  with  wood,  as  they  all  were  in  the  days  of  these 
terrors ;  the  guide  gave  me  a  piece  which  he  broke  off 
in  a  dark  comer  over  the  door,  —  it  is  quite  worm-eaten. 
I  suppose  the  prisoners  now  and  then,  perhaps,  could 
hear  a  little  nibble. 

Then  we  went  up  into  the  grand  Hall  of  Council,  and 
saw  Tintoretto's  great  picture  of  Paradise,  the  largest 
picture  on  canvas  in  the  world.     I  should  hope  so.     It 

would  cover  two  sides  of  Dr.  T 's  church,  I  think ; 

and  what  do  you  say  to  it  for  a  conception  of  heaven, 
when  I  tell  you  that  even  at  that  size  it  is  crowded 
with  figures  ;  packed,  jammed,  wedged,  they  are,  —  the 
saints  of  Tintoretto.  I  would  rather  be  any  kind  of  a 
sinner  in  any  other  place  where  there  was  elbow-room. 
The  only  thing  that  gave  me  pleasure  was  to  see  that 
St.  Mark  had  got  his  lion  in.  The  sagacious  beast  is 
looking  up  in  St.  Mark's  face  with  such  an  earnest,  in- 
quiring expression,  puzzled  and  uneasy,  as  if  he  said, 
"  Well,  really,  master,  is  it  possible  you  like  this  kind 
of  thing,  and  do  you  mean  to  stay  long  ?  " 


2  20     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

Now  I  will  take  you  to  a  concert  on  the  Grand 
Canal.  We  are  in  our  gondola,  quite  close  to  the  Vice- 
roy's steamer;  it  is  not  quite  twilight,  and  the  lamps 
are  lit  in  the  cabin,  and  the  great  people  are  at  dinner. 
Brown  Egyptians,  who  look  much  like  Marshpee  In- 
dians in  red  fezes,  are  clambering  about  in  a  kind  of 
busy  idleness  all  over  the  boat;  and  the  Viceroy's  little 
boy,  ten  years  old,  also  in  a  red  fez,  is  on  deck  with 
bis  tutor,  a  gray-headed  old  fellow,  who  does  n't  look 
half  so  wise  as  the  boy.  Poor  little  soul,  to  have  been 
put  through  all  this  before  twelve  I  What  a  sucked 
orange  his  world  will  be  before  he  is  twenty  !  I  never 
see  these  experienced  children  without  thinking  how 
much  better  off  they  are  who  begin  with  mud-pies 
and  a  "  cubby-house  "  of  broken  crockery,  as  we  did. 
Did  n't  you  ?    I  did,  at  any  rate,  and  the  consequence 

is  that  here  am  I  to-night, !  years  old,  but  deli- 

ciously  delighted  and  amused  with  the  outside  of  the 
Viceroy's  ship,  and  the  show,  and  the  music,  while  this 
baby  of  ten  sat  and  twirled  his  little  cane,  and  looked 
on  as  indtfiFerently  as  an  old  loafer.  The  bands  of  music 
were  on  two  gondolas  which  had  been  fastened  together 
and  draped  with  blue  and  white,  making  a  great  fairy- 
like barge,  which  was  towed  up  and  down  by  three 
other  gondolas  draped  in  white,  and  rowed  by  gondo- 
liers in  white  and  black  velvet.  W^e  all  raced  about 
after  this  barge,  sixty  or  a  hundred  gondolas  of  us,  and 
tried  to  get  as  close  to  it  as  we  could,  which  was  fool- 
ish ;  but  all  people  are  sheep  when  they  are  in  crowds. 
This  is  n't  quite  true,  however,  for  we  did  not  like  to 
be  in  such  jams,  and  kept  moving  off  as  well  as  we 
could ;  but,  in  spite  of  us,  we  were  wedged  much  of  the 
time.  On  the  Viceroy's  steamer  was  a  band,  —  African, 
should  say,  and  made  up  two  thirds  of  cymbals  and 
tambourines;  but  it  suited  the  fezes  and  the  color  of  the 
men,  and  the  red  and  yellow  and  green  lights  with  which 
the  whole  ship  was  illuminated.  Did  n't  we  believe  in 
Aladdin  just  then  ?  I  think  the  Viceroy  Uves  in  his 
palace. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      221 

*rhen  came  a  gondola  waving  with  green  laurel- 
bushes,  with  colored  lanterns  swinging  among  them. 
This  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all ;  on  this  were  singers 
who  sang  songs,  and  if  they  were  singing  still,  we 
should  stUl  be  there  Ustening  to  them,  because  to  come 
away  from  the  Grand  Canal  in  Venice  when  Venetian 
men  are  singing  on  the  water  is  not  in  the  power  of 
human  beings.  The  Ten  Commandments  can  be  kept 
perhaps;  people  are  said  to  have  done  it;  but  this  ia 
harder. 

The  ships  in  the  harbor  were  gay  with  colors,  and 
there  were  rockets  and  Bengal  lights  and  Roman  can-^ 
dies  in  all  directions ;  and  after  the  Viceroy  and  his 
guests  had  done  their  dinner,  they  stepped  into  such 
gondolas,  —  the  royal  gondola  blue  velvet  and  silver, 
with  six  gondoliers  in  blue  and  white  ;  the  others  green 
and  purple  and  yellow,  —  and  away  they  all  rowed  up 
the  Griudeca. 

Later  in  the  evening  we  were  near  the  Rialto,  and 
all  of  a  sudden  the  whole  cortege,  shot  past  us.  0  the 
sweep  of  a  gondola  with  six  rowers !  Several  of  the 
gondolas  had  Bengal  lights  at  the  prow,  and  the  effect 
of  this  light  on  the  old  stone  fronts  of  the  palaces  and 
on  the  bridge  was  something  that  sobered  and  saddened 
you  in  a  second.  The  very  stones  seemed  to  cry  out, 
"  We  are  dead,  we  are  dead."  After  all,  Venice  is  a 
ghost.  The  banquet  is  over,  and  these  shows  of  to-day 
make  the  old  palaces  scornful  in  their  tombs,  I  dare 
say.  Now  who  could  sleep  after  such  a  night?  But 
one  has  a  duty  to  one's  eyes ;  so  good  by. 

On  Monday  I  went  alone  to  the  Academy,  and  had 
a  feast  off  a  few  pictures  which  I  like.  Do  not  be 
afraid  I  shall  tell  you  much  about  them.  I  have  told 
you  about  Titian^s  little  Virgin  in  "  The  Presentation," 
—  have  I  not  ?  That  is  a  picture  for  which  one  might 
almost  sell  one's  soul,  if  taken  in  the  right  moment ! 
My  love  of  this  picture  has  almost  cost  me  the  loss  of 
all  the  others  in  the  building,  I  find  it  so  hard  to  leave  it. 


22  2     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

Then  there  is  a  St.  John  by  Veronese,  which  one 
could  look  at  and  grow  happier  for  a  lifetime  ;  and 
8uch  grand  old  ballad  pictures  by  Carpaccio,  and  lyrics 
by  Bellini,  with  cunning  little  angels  playing  accompani- 
ments at  the  base  of  altars. 

There  is  a  head  of  Homer  by  Caravaggio  here  which 
is  grander  than  Milton's  Hymn.  The  darkened  air  and 
those  sightless  eyes  I  You  have  a  fear  of  blindness 
hanging  over  you  wherever  you  go,  on  the  day  in  which 
you  look  at  this  picture. 

In  the  afternoon  P and  I  roamed  (and  wriggled) 

througli  the  cracks  in  the  walls  where  the  shops  are, 
and  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  said  what  we  would 
like  to  bay,  and  went  in  and  "  priced "  things,  after 
the  manner  of  women,  for  two  hours  or  more,  but  did 
not  spend  any  money,  which  I  hope  is  set  down  to  us 
ibr  righteousness. 

On  Tuesday  was  the  Arsenal,  not  very  good  to  tell 
about,  but  worth  while  to  see.  Stacks  of  old  armor, 
complete  suit  of  Henri  Quatre,  and  a  helmet  of  Attila's, 
and  the  visor  of  Attila's  horse  among  them.  Some  old 
monster's  instruments  of  torture,  a  thumb-screw  and  a 
collar,  and  a  pistol  of  poisoned  arrows,  and  an  iron  hel- 
met. I  had  my  thumb  in  the  screws  for  a  minute,  and 
the  guide  squeezed  it  down  for  me  within  one  of  the 
point  at  which  I  should  have  abjured  Calvinism  (if  that 
is  what  I  believe.)  There  were  all  sorts  of  wooden 
models  of  all  sorts  of  ships  and  boats  and  forts ;  two 
sides  of  old  Venetian  galleys,  carved  in  great  figures, 
and  aU  gilt  and  red,  —  they  must  have  been  gay  things 
afloat ;  a  mast  of  the  old  Bucentaur,  and  a  picture  of 
it ;  and  the  model  ot  it,  eighty  feet  long,  which  the 
Austrians  carried  off  with  them,  the  thieves  !  A  great 
torn  and  patched  and  faded  shred  of  a  flag  which  came 
out  of  the  battle  of  Lepanto ;  a  suit  of  armor  made  for 
a  little  boy  eight  years  old,  the  son  of  some  Doge,  who 
wished  to  inure  the  poor  baby  to  war,  and  kept  him  on 
the  walls  in  war  time  in  this  frightful  suit  of  mail.    It 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      223 

was  on  a  lay-figure  of  wood,  and  even  the  white  round 
wooden  face  looked  scared,  just  as,  no  doubt,  the  poor 
son  of  the  Doge  did ! 

A  patronizing  officer  went  about  with  us,  and  said  he 
had  been  in  Boston  and  Montreal,  and  that  people  had 
to  be  very  rich  to  live  in  America.  Ah,  we  knew  what 
that  meant, —  that  he  expected  a  big  fee !    But  afterward 

he  asked  N if  we  had  all  been  married ;  so  for  his 

impertinence  we  gave  him  only  a  franc,  and  he  looked 
quite  taken  down  when  we  came  away. 

Wednesday  we  went  over  the  Viceroy's  yacht.  At  first 
the  Marshpee  Indians  —  I  mean  Egyptians  —  did  not 
seem  inclined  to  let  us  go  on  board ;  but  we  coaxed  and 
wheedled  them  as  well  as  we  could  at  six  arms'  length, 
rocking  in  a  gondola  under  their  stern,  and  at  last  we 
prevailed. 

Going  to  sea  would  not  be  a  bad  thing  to  do  in  the 

Viceroy's  yacht.     Mrs.  T said  it  was  far  handsomer 

than  the  Queen's.  Such  a  luxurious  cabin  you  never 
dreamed  of, —  satin  damask  of  the  most  exquisite  gray 
color,  with  bright  rosebuds  and  vines  over  it,  on  every 
chair  or  sofa  or  cushion ;  mosaics  from  Rome  for  ta- 
bles ;  inlaid  work  in  woods  and  in  silver  on  the  walls ; 
above  every  lamp  a  convoluted  shell  with  mosaic  and 
mother-of-pearl  in  it  to  reflect  the  hght ;  —  does  n't  it 
sound  comfortable? 

They  did  not  show  us  the  bedroom,  and  we  were 
afraid  to  ask,  for  they  crowded  about  us,  and  their  black 
eyes  gleamed  with  something  which  did  not  impress  us 
as  being  the  pure  respectfulness  to  which  we  were  ac- 
customed ;  and  I,  for  one,  felt  a  Uttle  happier  when  we 
were  fairly  out  of  the  ship.  But  we  had  seen  Ismail 
Pacha's  cabin  and  all  his  men ;  most  of  their  clothes, 
too,  which  looked  like  the  shirts  and  trousers  of  any 
other  nation,  and  were  all  hung  out  to  dry  on  long  lines 
forward.  They  were  very  busy  getting  ready  to  leave 
Venice  the  next  day,  as  soon  as  the  Viceroy  should 
return  from  Florence,  and  I  dare  say  it  did  not  please 
them  to  be  interrupted  by  five  women's  Questions. 


224 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


In  San  Giorgio  are  some  fine  carvings  in  wood 
They  were  made  by  a  Flemish  somebody.  There  are 
sixty  seats  or  stalls  for  the  priests  in  a  semicircle ;  the 
backs  and  the  arms  and  the  railings  in  front,  and  every 
available  inch,  all  are  cut  into  the  most  exquisite  and 
effective  picturing.  It  is  the  hfe  of  St.  Benedict  which 
is  the  theme  of  the  largest  panels,  those  making  the 
backs  of  the  seats.  It  begins  with  the  St.  Benedict 
baby  and  Mrs.  Benedict  in  bed,  and  the  nurse  and  the 
doctor,  and  the  rest  of  them  giving  the  Benedict  baby 
its  first  bath  ;  and  so  on  down  through  the  saint's  whole 
career,  about  which  I  was  ashamed  to  know  nothing. 
One  dies  daily  of  shame  at  one's  own  ignorance  here. 
But  these  lovely  carvings  are  as  fine  and  telling  as 
bronze ;  some  of  the  faces  I  shall  remember  always,  and 
the  riotous  foliage  and  ornament  everywhere.  The 
Fleming  must  have  Uved  long  and  put  his  best  years 
into  this  wood. 

Thursday  we  saw  the  Viceroy  and  his  whole  suite 

come  down  the  Q^ C in  the  royal  gondolas,  and 

go  on  board  the  small  tug  to  take  them  to  their  steamer. 
Ismail  Pacha  looked  like  any  Mr.  Smith  of  America, 
full  brown  beard  and  fat  cheeks;  the  officers  blazed 
with  uniform  and  orders ;  the  bands  played,  the  singers 
sang,  and  Venice  looked  on  from  the  air  with  her  old 
palace  front  as  strong  and  regal  and  unmoved  as  ever. 
O  the  queenhood  of  the  face  of  this  sinking  city  !  three 
inches  in  a  century  it  goes  down,  —  did  you  know  it  ?  — 
so  the  end  is  sure  I 

On  Friday  we  went  to  Murano  again,  and  saw  the 
colored  and  twisted  and  flowered  glass  and  beads  made, 

and  I  had  two  tumblers  made  for  little  H and 

A ,  and,  like  the  smaller  child  I  am  myself,  cracked 

one  on  the  voyage  home,  in  my  hurry  to  get  it  out  of 
the  cooling  seaweed  it  had  been  packed  in,  and  smashed 
the  other  on  the  stone  stairs  as  I  went  up  to  bed ! 

On  Saturday  we  went  to  the  Lido,  looked  at  clover 
and  buttercups,  and  ragged-robin,  and  green  fields,  and 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      22- 

old  Jewish  graves  overgrown  with  rank  grass,  and  piled 
up  shells  on  the  shore  of  the  Adriatic. 

Yesterday  we  went  to  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  meet- 
ing in  a  little  room  on  the  Grand  CanaL  Think  of  the 
antithesis  of  the  thing  I 


10* 


C26     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


Berchtesgaden,  BavakiA,  Tuesday,  July  6, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE  :  This  is  what  we  do  of  an  after- 
noon, if  the  afternoon  happen  to  be  this  one  just 
going.  After  dinner  we  saw  from  our  front  window  a 
priest  bearing  the  crucifix,  and  httle  boys  with  candles 
going  into  the  church  which  is  opposite  ;  in  the  morn- 
ing P had  seen  a  man  and  woman  digging  a  grave 

in  the  graveyard,  which  is  also  opposite  our  house. 
(Don't  think  we  dislike  it ;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  the 
cheerfullest  place  I  ever  saw.  The  crosses  almost  elbow 
each  other,  they  are  so  close  ;  they  are  gay  with  wreaths 
and  bunches  -f  flowers,  and  on  every  grav^e  are  grow- 
ing forget-me-tiots  or  roses  or  sweet-williams.)  So  we 
thought  there  would  be  a  funeral  soon,  and  were  on 
the  watch  for  it ;  but,  just  as  it  was  in  Venice,  we  were 
a  little  too  late.  It  must  have  happened  while  we  were 
at  dinner,  and  when  we  got  there,  —  now  you  will 
never  believe  me,  but  it  is  true,  —  there  was  nobody  left 
in  the  graveyard  but  three  old  women  and  two  little 
children ;  and  two  of  the  old  women  were  sitting  on  a 
grave  knitting,  while  the  third  was  fiUing  up  the  grave 
with  a  kind  of  hoe  ;  the  two  babies  were  leaning  over 
the  edge  and  looking  at  each  fall  of  the  earth  on  the 
boards  I  We  were  so  horrified  that  we  walked  imme- 
diately away,  and  in  our  excitement  sat  down  on  one 
of  the  praying  benches  with  our  backs  to  a  huge  cruci- 
fix, and  never  observed  what  an  irreverence  we  were 
guilty  of,  until  an  old  peasant  woman  came  by,  and, 
with  a  stern  look  at  us,  knelt  directly  before  us  and 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  We  fled  again,  this  time 
out  of  the  churchyard,  and  down  a  staircase  path 
which  leads  to   the  river,  by  way   of  much  zigzag 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


227 


through  two  or  three  people's  grounds.  This  wonder- 
ful little  village  is  so  up  and  down  hill,  that  you  are 
always  coming  on  bits  of  staircase,  built  in  for  a  short 
cut,  where,  without  it,  you  would  have  to  go  miles 

round.     Pretty  soon  P found  it  too   warm  and 

went  home,  but  I  kept  on  till  I  found  a  shady  place 
under  an  old  stone  wall,  where  I  camped.  It  was  on 
the  edge  of  a  thoroughfare  path  from  one  part  of  the 
river  road  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  so  I  had  sight  of  every- 
body who  went  on  foot  that  way  for  an  hour.  An  old 
woman  with  a  fishing-pole  and  trout  in  a  pretty  wooden 
firkin ;  —  I  peeped  at  the  trout  and  said  "  guten,"  and 
pointed  to  the  hotel  where  we  stay,  and  she  nodded 
and  said  "Ja  "  ;  so  I  dare  say  we  shall  have  these  very 
fi^sh  for  supper.  Then  an  old  man  on  crutches, —  how 
he  was  ever  to  get  up  that  steep  climb  I  could  not  see, 
nor  for  that  matter  how  he  could  walk  anywhere, 
he  was  so  old,  and  the  crutches  so  poor ;  but  the  very 
poorest,  most  tottering  old  people  here  bid  you  good 
day  with  such  a  cheery,  contented,  good-fellowship, 
voice,  and  smile,  that  you  would  not  be  afraid  to  change 
places  with  the  forlornest  of  them.  Probably  you 
would  be  the  gainer.  I  never  saw  such  beautiful  souls 
shining  through  such  hideous  faces.  Really  the  transi- 
tion from  the  average  wayside  face  of  Italy  to  that 
of  Germany  is  a  severe  cold  bath  to  one's  artistic 
sense,  —  such  persistent  and  unconscious  ugliness !  At 
first  I  was  vexed  with  them  for  not  looking  humili- 
ated ;  but  presently  I  perceived  that  it  was  grand  in 
them  not  to  discover  that  they  were  hideous,  —  a  posi- 
tive pre-apple  innocence  of  all  vanity.  Already  they 
have  grown  beautiful  to  me,  and  their  hearty  recogni- 
tion of  every  human  soul  they  meet  is  the  most  divine 
thing  I  have  ever  known  a  whole  community  to  do.  I 
intend,  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  to  smile  and  say  "  Good 
morning  "  to  everybody  I  pass  on  the  road ;  and  be  set 
down  for  a  mad  woman  ?  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I 
did  not  mean  in  New  York   or  London,  though;   I 


2  28     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

meant  in  the  blessed  country.  I  said  "  road,"  if  yctt 
observe.  After  a  time  "  Barefoot "  came  by  with  a 
great  pail  of  strawberries  on  her  arm  tied  up  in  a  yel- 
low silk  handkerchief.  I  peeped  into  this  too,  and  they 
looked  so  ripe  and  red  and  dewy  that  I  thought  per- 
haps for  once  they  would  taste  like  strawberries  if  I 
bought  them  out  of  her  hand  and  ate  them  on  the 
highway.  For  you  must  know  that  from  the  1st  of 
last  May  till  now  I  have  been  steadily  eating  straw- 
berries, and  not  a  strawberry  of  them  all  has  had  the 
real  strawberry  flavor.  They  have  a  name  to  live  and 
are  dead,  —  these  "  Alpine  strawberries,"  which  have 
such  a  fine  sound  to  the  ear.  I  would  give  a  bushel  of 
them  for  a  saucer  full  from  Bethlehem,  New  Hampshire, 
any  day.  I  held  out  a  kreutzer  to  her  with  one  hand, 
and  made  signs  that  she  should  put  the  berries  into  the 
other;  she  gave  me  a  large  handful,  and  wanted  to 
give  me  more,  but  there  was  no  room.  I  ate  them 
slowly  from  the  tip  of  a  sharp  grass  blade,  and  dis- 
covered that  they  were  a  little  less  lifeless  without 
sugar,  which  will  be  an  economy  for  the  landlord  of 
the  Watzman;  several  of  them  rolled  away  in  the 
grass,  and  were  at  once  pounced  upon  by  mysterious 
crawling  people  of  many  kinds,  who  fell  to  with  a  less 
fastidious  appetite  than  mine.  I  burst  out  laughing  all 
alone  by  myself,  to  think  how  droll  it  Avas  that  there 
should  be  such  a  difference  between  an  ant  and  me,  —  I 
eating  the  berries  down  by  the  handful,  and  he  stretch- 
ing his  neck  up  to  get  a  nibble  off  the  great  red  moun- 
tain !  Then  I  picked  some  purple  thyme,  and  some  vines 
of  yellow  "  money,"  which  straggles  all  about  the  road- 
sides here,  and  then  I  washed  my  hands  in  a  little 
brook  which  ran  under  the  thyme  and  "money,"  and 
then  I  went  home  and  went  into  the  dining-room  and 
turned  the  German  waiter's  head  by  making  signs  that 
I  wanted  two  toothpick  dishes.  He  kept  tipping  out 
bunch  after  bunch  of  toothpicks  and  giving  them  to 
me,   and   I   kept  putting  down   the   toothpicks  and 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


229 


clutching  at  the  dish,  till  I  got  into  such  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter I  was  afraid  he  would  never  treat  me  respectfully 
again.  However,  at  last  I  triumphed  and  bore  off  two 
of  the  dishes,  leaving  him  looking  at  the  toothpicks 
scattered  all  over  the  tablecloth.  On  the  stairs  I  met 
our  httle  "Special  Providence,"  as  I  call  him,  —  a  fat 
curly  boy  who  speaks  English,  and  I  told  him  I  want- 
ed the  dishes  to  put  flowers  in,  so  I  hope  he  explained 
to  the  other.  They  are  dear  little  oblong  dishes  of 
glass,  four  or  five  inches  long,  and  one  and  a  half  wide, 
and  I  have  had  my  eye  on  them,  ever  since  I  have  been 
here,  for  thyme  and  "money."  Now  one  stands  on  my 
right  hand  on  my  writing-table,  and  one  on  the  centre- 
table  in  P 's  room  ;  and  anything  lovelier  you  could 

not  see  than  the  pale  purple  and  the  bright  yellow,  and 
the  tangled  sprays  falling  over  as  if  they  were  still  by 
the  roadside. 

To-morrow  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  tell  you  how 
we  got  here,  and  what  sort  of  a  place  it  is,  which  it 
would  have  been  more  business-like  to  do  in  the  begin- 
ning of  my  letter,  only  that  one  never  does  begin 
where  one  ought,  nor  leave  off  where  one  should.  But 
you  are  going  to  be  let  off  easy  this  time !  no  such 
thirty-six  pages  as  the  last !  Upon  my  word,  such  a 
sight  as  I  just  saw  from  my  window,  —  a  man  and  a 
woman  coming  up  the  road,  the  woman  carrying  a  load 
of  wood  in  her  arms,  and  the  man  carrying  only  an 
umbrella  I  And  just  as  I  was  getting  hot  at  the  look 
of  it,  do  you  think  he  did  n't  march  up  and  give  her  the 
umbrella  too ! 

Wednesday,  July  8.  —  Eeally  these  people  make 
me  cry.  I  have  been  rambling  about  the  village  this 
morning,  sitting  down  in  shady  nooks  and  reading 
over  a  great  delicious  parcel  of  newspaper  extracts 
from  America;  and  three  different  blessed  old  souls 
stopped  and  spoke  to  me  in  such  a  way  that  I  could 
not  keep  the  tears  out  of  my  eyes.  First,  the  poor  old 
man  on  crutches  ;  I  meet  him  everywhere.    I  don't  see 


230 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


anybody  with  legs  who  walks  so  much.  He  thinks  he 
knows  me  now,  and  so  he  adds  more  and  more  cour- 
tesy and  benediction  to  his  greeting  every  day.  I  do 
believe  he  is  inspired.  I  never  saw  such  a  radiant  look 
of  content  on  any  human  face,  yet  he  is  very,  very 
thin.  I  do  not  beheve  he  ever  has  enough  to  eat,  and 
his  clothes  are  very  poor.  I  would  give  a  hundred 
dollars  (if  I  had  it !)  to  be  able  to  speak  to  him.  I  am 
sure  I  cannot  put  into  my  simple  bow  and  smile  one 
half  the  reverence  I  feel  for  him.  Then,  as  I  was  sit- 
ting on  some  stairs  in  the  heart  of  a  meadow  hill,  mid- 
way between  the  church  and  the  river,  came  by  an 
old  woman  with  a  rough  wallet  holding  two  loaves  of 
black  bread  and  her  shoes !  She  stopped  and  nodded, 
and  nodded  and  smiled,  and  said  "  Good  morning  I " 
and  then  added,  "  It  is  good  here,"  or,  as  they  say  still 
more  effectively,  "  Here  is  good."  I  said,  "  Yes,  yes,"  and 
smiled  back  again  as  hard  as  I  could,  but,  dear  me  1  what 
would  I  have  given  for  a  few  words !  Then  I  struck 
out  of  the  path,  and  half  ran  and  half  rolled  down  the 
other  side  of  the  hill,  and  came  into  a  Brattleboro'  path, 
on  the  edge  of  a  stony  brook  and  set  thick  with  pur- 
ple vetch  and  tiny  sunflowers,  and  white  "snow- 
flake  "  and  "  pride  of  the  meadow,"  and  half  a  dozen 
more  of  our  common  field-flowers.  I  made  a  big 
bunch  of  purple  and  yellow  and  white,  and  fringed  it 
with  green  grass  and  odd  leaves,  and  then  sat  down 
bare-headed  under  a  tree,  and  plunged  again  into  my 
newspapers.  John  Weiss  and  Frothingham  and  Emer- 
son !  how  good  their  voices  sounded  under  this  sky !  I 
was  quite  lost  in  listening  to  them,  when  a  great,  gruff 
voice  said,  "  Ja,  ja,  hier  ist  gut "  ("  here  it  is  good  "), 
and  there  stood  a  Berchtesgaden  carpenter,  his  foot- 
nile  sticking  out  of  his  pocket,  and  a  bundle  of  boards 
under  his  arm,  looking  with  such  genuine  sympathy 
at  my  flowers,  at  my  hat  hung  on  my  umbrella,  and 
at  me.  I  nodded  and  said  as  nearly  as  I  could  the 
same  words  after  him.      Then  he  laughed  a  little  at 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


231 


my  G-erman,  and  lifted  his  hat,  and  kept  it  in  his  hand 
till  he  had  passed  many  steps  beyond  me.  Think  of 
the  air  of  such  a  place  !  I  positively  begin  to  wonder 
if  they  sin  here!  I  suppose  somebody  must.  But 
none  of  these  people  who  smile  and  look  so  serene  and 
say  "  Good  morning  "  to  me  do  ;  I  'U  go  bail  for  them, 
all  of  them.  They  seem  to  me  just  as  true  and  beau- 
tiful and  harmonious  as  the  trees  and  the  butterflies ; 
and  as  for  going  back  from  this  atmosphere  to  that 
of  the  rest  of  the  world,  '^  do  not  believe  I  can.  I 
shall  stay  here  till  somebody  comes  to  carry  me  away. 
I  already  feel  as  if  never  of  my  own  free-will  could  I 
turn  my  back  on  these  hills.  And  how  can  I  tell  you 
what  they  are  like  to  the  eye  ?  Like  Brattleboro'  and 
Bethlehem  married  and  come  •  to  spend  honeymoon  in 
the  Alps  I  Now  I  have  exhausted  my  fancy  on  that 
figure,  and  how  you  will  all  laugh  at  it!  But  it  is 
like  Brattleboro'.  There  are  soft-wooded  hills  that 
lap  and  circle ;  and  there  are  paths  everywhere  by 
little  brooks,  and  roads  everywhere  by  stony  foam- 
ing rivers ;  and  such  pine  woods  as  Brattleboro's  will 
be  when  they  grow  up.  These  are,  well,  forty  or  fifty 
feet  higher!  Never  did  I  think  a  fir  could  be  so  tall^ 
and  not  snap.  I  am  afraid,  driving  between  them. 
Then  there  are  mountains,  like  Mt.  Washington  in  its 
best  October  days,  purple  or  gray,  with  patches  of 
snow  dazzling  white ;  and  then  there  is  the  giant  Watz- 
man,  the  king  of  them  all,  and  he  has  a  glacier.  Also 
there  are  lakes,  only  one  of  which  I  have  seen,  and 
that  is  so  wonderfully  beautiful  that  I  cannot  try  to 
tell  you  anything  about  it,  but  I  shall  put  in  some  little 
photograph  pictures  into  this  letter ;  from  them  you 
can  build  the  air  castles  for  yourselves,  and  put  in  the 
mountains  and  the  woods  and  the  lakes  and  the 
people. 

The  "  Guest  House  and  Brewery  "  at  which  we  are 
staying  looks  much  better  in  reality  than  in  this  very 
bald  httle  picture.     It  should  have  been  taken  so  as  to 


232 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


throw  in  the  whole  of  the  hill  on  the  left,  which  haa 
pine-trees  at  top,  and  is  one  of  my  morning  haunts. 
It  is  quite  as  high  as  the  hill  behind,  on  the  top  of 
which  you  will  see  a  house  gleaming  out  among  the 
trees.  Now  you  can  understand  from  these  why  we 
go  -up  and  down  stairs  all  over  the  village.  It  is  not 
six  minutes'  walk  from  the  Watzman  to  that  house  on 
the  top  of  the  hill,  but  more  than  half  of  the  way  ia 
up  stairs.  On  a  small  clear  plateau  of  this  hill,  over- 
looking the  whole  village,  and  in  full  sight  from  every 
part  of  it,  is  a  large  shrine  in  which  is  a  fearful  repre- 
sentation of  the  Crucifixion.  The  Saviour  and  the 
two  thieves,  figures  of  wood,  and  large  as  life  I  We 
have  found  these  at  every  step  of  the  way  since  we 
entered  Germany,  of  all  sizes,  colors,  and  degrees  of 
the  horrible.  At  first  I  could  not  look  at  them,  and  felt 
only  a  sense  of  repulsion  and  antagonism  against  the 
religion  which  had  put  them  there,  but  I  have  now 
entirely  changed  my  feeling  about  them.  I  beheve 
that  much  of  the  sweet  beautiful  recognition  which  the 
people  give  to  strangers  and  to  each  other  has  grown 
out  of  the  habitual  reverence  of  their  daily  lives  for 
these  images  of  Christ  and  the  saints.  The  smallest 
child,  the  coarsest  man,  uncovers  his  head  in  passing 
one  of  these  shrines.  We  are  very  bigoted  and  stupid, 
it  seems  to  me,  in  assuming  that  it  is  the  thing  which 
the  Roman  Catholic  reverences,  when  he  kneels  before 
his  poor  tawdry  saint,  or  kisses  the  feet  of  the  silver 
Christ.  We  who  have  pictures  which  we  kiss  daily 
ought  to  be  more  just  than  that. 

Opposite  this  hotel  is  a  most  picturesque  old  church 
and  graveyard ;  0, 1  remember,  I  told  you  so !  Well, 
joining  the  church  is  a  little  shrine,  with  a  group  of 
figures  in  it  which  I  defy  anybody  to  see  without 
laughing,  they  are  so  grotesque,  so  hideously  absurd; 
and  yet  I  cannot  now  look  out  at  them  at  night, 
and  see  the  little  solitary  beam  of  the  lamp  burning 
before  it,  without  a  thrill.     I  think  there  will  be  some 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


233 


hard  moments  in  my  life  to  come,  when,  if  I  think  of 
G-ethsemane,  I  shall  think  of  this  dreadful  little  shrine 
in  the  Tyrol,  and  of  the  earnest,  pleading,  praying  souls 
I  have  seen  kneeling  before  it.  It  is  the  night  in  Greth- 
semane ;  the  Christ  and  all  the  Apostles  have  wreaths 
of  artificial  roses  on  their  heads.  The  positions  of 
two  or  three  of  the  sleeping  Apostles  are  so  ludicrous 
that  I  should  not  dare  to  describe  them.  Several  little 
fat  angels,  also  with  wreaths,  are  hung  by  wires  from 
the  roof,  and  a  big  angel,  worst  of  all,  is  directly  in 
front  of  the  kneeling  Christ,  supporting  him.  Never  in 
the  poorest  country  church  have  I  seen  anything  so 
frightfully  grotesque,  and  yet  I  have  seen  men  kneel 
before  that  iron  railing  with  that  in  their  faces  which 
it  smote  me  to  the  heart  to  see ;  I  should  never  have 
done  justice  to  what  the  Roman  Catholic  religion  was 
intended  to  be,  if  I  had  not  come  face  to  face  with  it  in 
these  honest,  earnest,  solemn  country  people  of  South 
Germany.  In  Italy  it  was  no  more  the  same  thing  than 
if  it  did  not  bear  the  same  name.  I  wonder  daily  if 
this  be  not  its  very  strongest  hold,  —  I  mean,  on  the 
inasses. 

July  14.  —  Well,  dear  people,  I  could  not  put  in,  if 
I  tried,  all  that  we  have  seen  since  I  wrote  these  last 
pages  of  rhapsody  over  country  Catholicism.  Such 
a  tumble  as  we  have  had,  and  such  a  scatter !  At  first 
I  thought  I  would  not  try  to  tell  you  the  story,  it 
would  be  so  long;  but  it  is  too  good  to  keep.  To 
begin  back,  we  were  told,  before  coming  to  Berchtes- 
gaden,  that  the  hotels  here  would  not  "  keep  "  people, 
that  everybody  had  to  go  into  lodgings ;  but,  being  of 
the  self-asserting  sort,  we  did  not  quite  believe  this, 
it  sounded  so  incredible.  We  thought  \oe  should  get 
kept,  if  nobody  else  did ;  and  as  for  going  into  apart- 
ments to  live,  that  was  something  we  never  would  do, 
not  we !  I  was  strongest  of  all  on  this  point.  Never 
agam,  so  long  as  I  live,  do  I  wish  to  see  my  dinner 
coming  into  the  door  in  a  box  on  a  man's  head.     Well, 


234     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

so  we  settled  down  in  our  comfortable  rooms  at  the 
Watzman,  as  I  told  you ;  and  are  not  the  H.  H.  written 
in  the  photograph  over  the  very  window  of  mine  ? 
And  did  not  the  good-natured  chambermaid  and  porter 
lug  out  the  secoHd  bed  to  make  a  nice  place  for  my 
writing-table  ?  and  did  I  not  hang  up  my  "  Council  of 
Friends"  on  the  walls,  and  Paul  Veronese's  little  St. 
John,  and  the  dear  convent  of  San  Lazzaro,  and  set  all 
my  sixteen  books  in  their  appointed  places,  and  say 
unto  my  soul,  "  Soul,  thou  hast  six  weeks  before  thee 
in  this  room ;  it  is  a  good  place  to  do  good  work  in  "  ? 
and  that  very  night  did  not  Franz  tell  us  at  tea  that  we 
could  only  have  the  rooms  a  fortnight,  he  thought;  that 
nobody  ever  stayed,  everybody  went  into  lodgings? 
Still  we  thought  we  would  let  things  slide,  and  trust  to 
sticking  on  somehow ;  at  least,  I  did.    The  best  part  of  all 

the  fun  is,  that  at  this  crisis,  in  these  early  days,  P 

and  N were  a  little  bored  with  Berchtesgaden  and 

intimated  that  they  might  not  be  contented  here  a  month. 
"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  you  can  go  off  to  as  many  water- 
ing-places as  you  please ;  out  of  this  heavenly  spot  I 
do  not  stir  for  six  weeks.  I  do  not  care  if  there  be  not 
a  human  being  here  to  whom  I  can  speak."  People 
kept  coming  and  going  ervery  day,  —  Germans,  chiefly ; 
now  and  then  an  English  party.  Nobody  stayed  over 
two  days  or  three ;  the  house  filled  and  emptied,  and 
filled  and  emptied,  like  a  railroad  station.  One  day 
we  saw  the  landlord  send  away  three  carriage-loads  of 
people  in  one  hour;  no  rooms  for  them  I  Then  my 
heart  sank  within  me !  Still  I  said,  "I  will  pay  for  that 
second  bed  which  has  been  taken  out  of  my  room ; 
then  I  shall  be  as  good  as  two."     So  I  clung  to  hope. 

Last  Friday  the  blow  fell.  The  poor  Franz,  with 
great  suffering  in  his  face,  told  us  that  a  party  of  court 
ladies  were  to  arrive  from  Ischl  Saturday  night,  (the 
Queen  had  already  arrived  at  her  villa  with  a  large  suite,) 
and  that  every  room  in  the  house  was  required.  "  I 
told  you  so,  mees,"  he  said.    Yes,  he  had  told  us  so,  — ' 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


235 


we  had  nobody  to  blame  but  ourselves.  In  midst  of 
my  discomfiture,  what  triumph  that  my  friends  did 
not,  after  all,  wish  to  leave  this  quiet  Berchtesgaden  I 
Did  n't  we  take  an  einspanner  and  drive  to  seven 
different  lodging-houses,  one  after  the  other,  in  vain? 
No  rooms  in  Berchtesgaden  which  would  do  for  us. 
This  little  town  is  absolutely  brimful  of  people.  At 
last  I  found  in  the  house  next  to  the  hotel,  only  a  min- 
ute's walk,  two  lovely  rooms,  which  by  some  strange 
chance  had  been  left  unrented,  — a  little  bedroom,  and 
a  corner  sitting-room  with  four  windows !  Into  these 
I  moved  in  two  short  hours,  having  all  my  "Council 
of  Friends,"  and  my  pictures,  and  my  books,  and  my 
tooth-powder,  and  my  india-rubbers  carried  over  in  a 
clothes-basket.    And  then  I  was  magnanimous  enough 

not  to  laugh  at  P and  N ,  who  had  absolutely  no 

resource  left  them  but  to  drive  back  to  Salzburg,  to  stay 
there  a  week,  before  they  could  have  rooms  at  Ischl, 
where  they  had  intended  to  go  a  little  later  I  It  is  only 
fourteen  miles  oflT,  to  be  sure,  and  it  is  a  beautiful  place ; 
but  it  is  a  large  city,  and  we  had  seen  it  thoroughly, 
and  last,  not  least,  it  cost  us  fifteen  francs  a  day  at  the 
hotel  there,  and  to  go  back  there  and  stay  seven  days 
would  have  been  the  very  thing  of  all  others  which  we 
should  have  said  nothing  would  induce  us  to  do.  At 
first  I  felt  a  little  nervous  about  being  left  all  alone  in 
this  little  German  town,  one  word  of  whose  language  I 
cannot  speak.  But  I  wanted  to  stay  so  much  that  I 
decided  to  try  it,  knowing  that  I  could  join  the  girls  at 
any  minute  if  I  found  it  too  lonely;  thus  far  I  enjoy  it 
immensely,  and  think  now  I  shall  stay  two  weeks, 
while  they  take  a  look  at  the  gayeties  of  Ischl,  for  which 
I  do  not  hanker.  I  have  my  breakfast  and  tea  in  the 
house,  and  go  over  to  the  hotel  for  my  dinner ;  and 
Franz,  the  little  curly-headed  "Special  Providence  "  who 
speaks  English,  begs  to  be  allowed  to  come  over  and 
translate  for  me,  —  "  if  there  might  be  anything  what 
you  will  like  to  say,  mees,"  he  tells  me  every  day ;  so 


236 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


I  am  writing  away  at  things  I  had  wanted  to  do,  and 
taking  long  walks,  and  reading  Morris  and  Emerson, 
and  having  the  novel  experience  of  being,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  absolutely  and  entirely  alone.  It  will 
only  be  so  for  a  few  days,  however,  for  next  week  I 
expect  friends  from  Venice,  and  probably  some  from 
Eome.  In  fact,  it  is  partly  because  I  do  not  want 
to  miss  seeing  them  that  I  stay  on.  Meantime  I  see 
more  and  more  the  reason  of  the  landlord's  not  keeping 
permanent  people  in  his  house.  Carriage-load  after 
carriage-load  they  come  from  both  ways,  for  a  day, 
a  night,  a  dinner.  In  August,  Franz  says  the  gen- 
tlemen sleep  in  the  barn  often,  or  camp  on  the  hill, 
and  he  has  four  beds  in  my  room  I  And  I,  poor  sim- 
pleton, thought  perhaps  I  might  bribe  him  by  paying 
for  two !  In  the  parlor  and  bedroom  opposite  mine,  in 
this  house,  is  a  Q-erman  lady  who  looks  so  like  Mrs. 
Dall  I  am  sure  she  belongs  to  the  same  class  of  work- 
ers; she  has  a  writing-table,  too,  all  covered  with 
papers  and  work  just  like  mine.  I  have  caught  her 
"  peeking  "  through  at  mine,  just  as  I  do  at  hers ;  I  pre- 
sume we  wonder  equally  at  each  other.  She  has  two 
sons,  —  fine,  tall  fellows,  students,  I  think,  —  who  come 
to  see  her  every  day,  and  they  go  off  for  tramps  to- 
gether. Now  you  see  the  mistake  of  my  life  in  not 
having  had  the  gift  of  tongues.  If  I  could  only  speak 
German,  all  sorts  of  things  would  happen.  Among 
others,  I  should  be  able  to  get  out  of  the  director  of  the 
Salt  Works,  who  lives  in  such  a  lovely  stone  house 
joining  the  old  church  opposite,  all  necessary  informa- 
tion to  make  a  wonderful  story  about  the  Bavarian 
salt.  It  is  the  most  marvellous  thing  you  ever  heard 
of,  —  the  way  they  carry  this  salt-water  about  in  pipes 
from  town  to  town,  over  mountains  two  thousand 
feet  high ;  sixty  miles  it  goes  on  one  route,  —  from 
Berchtesgaden  through  Reichenhall  to  Transtein.  The 
other  day  in  Reichenhall,  1  saw,  in  a  great  dripping 
chamber,  two  wheels,  forty  feet  high,  rolling  slowly 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     237 

round  and  round,  dipping  down  into  water  under  the 
floor,  and  working  all  sorts  of  mysterious  pistons  and 
things,  and  that  is  all  I  know  about  it ;  but  I  shall  go 

into  the  salt-mine  after  the  G s  come.     That  will 

be  one  thing  T  can  see  without  speaking  German. 
But  now  I  must  tell  you  a  Uttle  about  the  pictures  of 
the  wonderful  lake  Koenigsee,  so  that  you  can  under- 
stand them.  Look  first  at  picture  No.  1 ;  that  is  the 
end  of  the  lake  to  which  we  drive  from  Berchtesgaden 
(three  miles);  those  little  houses  are  boat-houses, 
fi-om  which  you  push  out  in  a  ticklish  little  boat,  rowed 
perhaps  by  two  women,  —  there  are  as  many  women 
as  men  who  row.  You  row  down  between  those  two 
points  in  the  centre  of  the  picture,  and  turn  round  the 
one  on  the  right,  and  there  you  see  the  view  which  is 
given  in  No.  2.  But  you  can  hardly  form  any  idea  of 
the  immense  distance,  except  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
little  chapel  of  St.  Bartholema,  which  is  shown  in  No. 
3,  is  the  tiny  white  spot  which  you  see  apparently 
near  the  end  of  the  lake  in  No.  2.  The  mountains  are 
all  five  and  six  thousand  feet  high,  and  there  is  hardly 
a  spot  on  the  lake  where  even  a  foothold  could  be 
got  on  the  shore,  these  mountains  rise  so  sharply  from 
the  water.  When  the  king  comes  to  hunt,  the  peas- 
ants drive  the  chamois  down  these  steep  sides  into 
the  water,  and  the  royal  people  shoot  them  from  boats. 
If  I  am  here  when  it  happens  I  must  see  it,  and  yet 
I  shall  want  to  shoot  one  shot  for  the  chamois  into 
midst  of  the  court.  0  the  cruel  thing  that  it  is  to  do ! 
The  picture  of  Berchtesgaden  does  not  give  you  a 
good  idea  of  anything  except  the  big  Watzman,  with 
its  glacier ;  you  see  only  part  of  the  town,  and  get  no 
idea  of  the  lovely  sloping  hills  which  lie  all  about  it, 
with  houses  and  farms  set  like  white  and  green  stones 
in  the  framing  of  dark  fir  forests.  The  little  villa  is  a 
capital  picture  of  the  average  style  of  country-seat  in 
this  neighborhood.  Almost  all  have  as  many  vines  as 
this  one,  and  they  all  have  the  projecting  roofs  and 


238     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

stones  laid  along  the  narrow  cross-boards  to  hold  them 
down.  I  meant  to  have  sent  a  picture  of  the  royal 
villa,  but  forgot  it.  That  has  a  solid  wall  of  woodbine 
over  the  lower  story,  and  is  very  picturesque.  But  my 
letter  is  heavy  enough  now. 

I  don't  tell  you  anything  about  Salzburg,  nor  about 
Innspruck,  nor  about  the  Grand  Ampezzo  Pass  through 
which  we  came  up  from  Venice  here.  It  was  a  fine 
two  weeks'  journey,  —  better  even  than  the  Cornice 
road,  about  which  you  never  heard,  for  the  luckless 
letter  went  nobody  knows  where.  0,  I  must  tell  you 
that  your  next  letter  wiU  be  from  Innspruck,  from  the 
Schloss  Wyerburg,  an  old  hunting  castle  of  the  old 
Maximilians !  Does  not  that  sound  well  ?  Some  pleas- 
ant English  people,  friends  of  the  S s,  are  board- 
ing there,  and  are  anxious  to  have  us  join  them ;  so  that 
is  likely  to  be  our  next  move ;  and  from  Innspruck 
there  are  many  pleasant  excursions,  —  it  is  nearly  the 
centre  of  the  Tyrol.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  told  you  noth- 
ing in  this  letter.  There  is  a  wedding  dance  I  have 
seen,  and  a  ride  all  by  myself  in  an  eilwayen  (omni- 
bus), and  a  trial  of  a  fire  apparatus  here  in  the  streets 
of  Berchtesgaden,  and  a  trip  to  Reichenhall,  and  a  din- 
ner in  a  garden.  Why  cannot  one  write  as  fast  as  one 
could  speak  ? 

Good  by ;  love,  and  love,  and  love  to  you  all. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     239 


TVod-Bad-Qastein,  AnsT»u,  August  11, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE :  I  had  half  a  mind  to  send  you  this 
month  a  treatise  on  European  cookery,  or  poUtics, 
or  anything  else  rather  than  where  I  am,  and  how  I  came 
80.  It  looks  like  such  a  tangle  of  a  story  to  tell.  But 
I  suppose  if  I  said  I  was  not  here,  but  somewhere  else, 
somebody  would  be  sure  to  turn  up  and  contradict  me. 
I  always  got  found  out  in  all  the  lies  I  ever  told,  and  a 
good  many  I  did  n't.  I  dare  say  half  of  this  story  will 
be  taken  to  be  fiction. 

The  last  you  heard  of  me  was  at  Berchtesgaden,  Bst 
varia,  leading  the  life  of  a  hermit,  and  feasting  on  moun- 
tains. I  think  I  wrote  you  all  about  the  general  stam- 
pede of  strangers  there,  and  the  utter  impossibility  of 
getting  rooms  in  the  hotels.  How  little  I  thought  that 
in  less  than  two  weeks  I  should  see  a  place  by  compari- 
son with  which  Berchtesgaden  is  a  roomy  solitude !  But 
dear  me !  I  am  giving  you  hints ;  that  spoils  all.  The 
last  week  of  my  stay  in  Berchtesgaden,  however,  I  must 
not  forget  to  mention.  I  led  anything  but  a  hermit's 
life,  having  no  less  than  twelve  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances in  the  town,  so  that  I  was  sorrier  than  ever  at  the 
prospect  of  coming  away.  But  the  girls  wrote  from 
Ischl,  entreating  me  to  join  them  at  Salzburg,  and 
take  a  run  down  to  this  Bad-Gastein  before  we 
went  to  Innspruck.  G-astein  I  had  longed  to  see,  so  I 
packed  up  in  an  hour  and  posted  over  to  Salzburg ; 
and  for  Gastein  we  started  on  Monday  morning,  August 
2, — a  capital  pair  of  horses,  an  easy  carriage,^  and  a 
respectable  old  body  for  driver,  who  had  been  in  the 
service  of  the  Goldener  SchifF  ( the  hotel  from  which  we 
set  off)  for  twenty  years.     How  gay  we  were !     The 


240 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


girls  had  so  much  to  tell  of  their  doings  at  Ischl, 
where  they  had  been  driven  from  piUar  to  post,  in 
matter  of  rooms,  just  as  they  were  at  Berchtesgaden, 
but  where  they  had  managed,  in  a  sort  of  Israelite 
fashion,  to  have  a  grand  time  ;  had  seen  the  Empress  of 
Austria  and  her  papa  and  mamma,  and  the  wonderful 
little  town  of  Hallstadt,  which  clings  like  swallows' 
nests  to  the  mountain-side,  and  never  sees  sun  above 
the  mountain-tops  fiom  November  17  to  February  2. 
Think  of  that !  I  had  nothing  to  give  them  in  return 
for  these  traveller's  tales  except  faint,  shadowy  sketches 

of  the  conversation  of  the  Baroness  von  M ,  who 

had  spent  several  mornings  in  Berchtesgaden  in  telling 
me  about  the  life  at  court,  the  experiences  of  her  sis- 
ter-in-law who  is  Maid  of  Honor  to  Queen  Somebody, — 
I  forget  now  who,  —  and  the  ways  and  manners  of  Ger- 
man people  generally.  The  little  Baroness  is  an  Ameri- 
can, but  has  married  an  officer  in  the  Prussian  army, 
and  lived  seven  years  in  Germany.  Her  head  is  a  lit- 
tle the  less  steady  for  having  so  many  relatives  at  court ; 
but  she  is  very  amusing,  and  has  quite  a  fund  of  Ameri- 
can good  sense  left  in  her  yet.  Fancy  the  poor  Maid 
of  Honor  having  to  sleep  all  alone  in  a  small  pavilion, 
some  little  distance  from  an  insignificant  and  incon- 
venient villa  which  the  Queen  had  seen  fit  to  buy  of  a 
tailor,  and  live  in  for  the  summer,  though  it  was  far  too 
small  to  accommodate  her  suite.  At  night  the  Queen 
says,  "  I  will  go  at  seven  in  the  morning  to  take  a  walk." 
So  by  seven  in  the  morning  poor  Maid  of  Honor  must 
be  at  the  door  of  the  Queen's  bedchamber,  dressed, 
ready  for  the  walk.  No  queen  !  Hour  after  hour  passes. 
Maid  of  Honor  can't  stir,  because  at  any  moment 
Queen  may  come.  Perhaps  at  eleven  Queen  comes 
out  and  says,  "  0,  it  is  too  late  now,  but  we  will  take 
a  drive  I  "  Off  goes  poor  breakfastless  Maid  of  Honor 
to  drive  for  two  hours  !  And  so  it  is  all  day  ;  and  then 
perhaps  at  midnight  the  Queen  takes  a  walk.  It  sounds 
so  real  when  it  is  the  Maid  of  Honor's  sister-in-law  who 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


241 


tells  you.  I  never  had  any  idea  of  it  all  before.  Madame 
d'  Arblay's  Memoirs  sounded  as  mythical  to  me  as  the 
labors  of  Hercules.  —  Well,  with  our  queens  and  our 
empresses,  and  our  maids  of  honor,  we  rolled  along  over 
such  a  lovely  road  that  I  could  tell  you  nothing,  if  I  tried, 
which  would  make  you  see  how  it  looks.  The  great  Salz- 
burg plain  is  the  most  beautiful  I  ever  saw.  Hadley 
meadow,  perhaps,  enclosed  in  an  amphitheatre  of  moun- 
tains eight  and  ten  thousand  feet,  high,  with  a  city  in 
the  middle  of  the  plain,  and  a  great  gray  turreted  cas- 
tle perched  upon  a  crag  in  the  middle  of  the  city.  It  is 
all  highly  cultivated,  —  the  plain,  —  wheat  and  flax  and 
grass ;  avenues  of  linden-trees  cross  it  here  and  there. 
The  flax  was  blue  as  the  sky,  the  wheat  was  yellow, 
and  much  of  it  stacked  in  the  queer  fashion  they  have 
here,  which  is  to  build  the  stack  up  of  tied  bunches, 
"  ctiss  cross  "  round  a  pole ;  three  bunches  at  bottom 
stick  down  in  the  ground  like  legs,  and  every  stack 
looks  like  a  grotesque  Esquimau.  A  field  full  of  them 
in  rows  and  squads  is  as  funny  as  Beard's  bears. 

At  ten  we  reached  Hallein, —  a  dingy,  close-built  little 
town,  which  looked  like  an  Italian  town  baked  over. 
Here  we  stayed  four  hours,  and  went  through  a  salt-mine. 
Can't  write  that  up  now  ;  only  I  will  mention  that  we 
went  in  at  top  or  near  the  top  of  a  mountain  twelve 
hundred  feet  high,  and  we  came  out  at  bottom  of 
the  mountain.  Yes,  honor  bright,  we  did,  and  I  shall 
send  you  the  pictures  of  it  in  this  letter,  to  show  you 
how  we  looked.  They  are  very  good  pictures.  Some 
of  the  slides  down  which  we  went,  squatted  on  poles 
and  astride  the  track,  exactly  as  you  will  see  in  the 
pictures,  were  hundreds  of  feet  long,  and  just  as  steep 
as  they  look ,  the  first  one  almost  took' our  breath  away 
with  terror,  but  after  that  we  did  not  mind  it.  The 
most  wonderful  thing  was  the  pull  across  that  black 
lake,  lit  by  shimmering  lamps  all  round  the  outer 
edge,  and  the  rock  roof  close  over  our  heads,  and  we 
towed  slowly  over  by  invisible  hands  on  the  farther 
\1  p 


242 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


shore.     It  reminded  me  of  the  Car  of  Padalon  in  the 

Curse  of  Kehama. 

The  Bloomer  dresses  we  had  to  put  on  are  made  of  stout 
white  twilled  cotton.  They  also  give  you  round  wool- 
len caps ;  but  those  we  declined  for  many  reaso.^s,  and 
wore  our  own  hats.  Coming  down  from  the  mine  into 
the  town,  I  was  so  tired  that  I  stopped  a  man  whom  I 
took  to  be  a  post  driver  by  his  top-boots  and  yellow 
trousers,  and  asked  him  to  take  me  to  the  inn.     I  mean 

that  N asked  him,  I  seconding  the  appeal  by  the 

mute  language  to  which  I  am  confined  in  this  country.  I 
thought  he  looked  uncommonly  astounded  at  the  re- 
quest;  and  awful  misgivings  crept  over  me,  inch  by  inch 
of  the  way,  as  I  looked  at  his  heavy  costly  gloves  and 
whip,  and  the  superior  make  and  get  up  of  his  horses. 
"  Of  course,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  here  I  have  been  and 
gone  and  jumped  into  the  wagon  of  a  baron  or  an 
archduke  or  something,  and  I  can't  even  say,  *  I  am 
quite  sorry,  sir,  but  really  your  face  is  so  red  I  took 
you  for  a  postilion.'  But  he  was  only  the  Herr — some- 
thing or  other  which  I  can't  spell,  —  and  he  only  had  to 
carry  me  a  few  rods ;  Ave  were  not  so  far  off  as  I 
thought ;  and  I  dare  say  he  is  very  glad  of  the  story  to 
tell,  to  illustrate  the  manners  of  American  women,  and 
how  they  don't  know  better  than  to  offer  a  gentleman 
money. 

We  ate  a  good  dinner  of  trout  in  the  queer  little 
stuffy  dining-room  of  the  inn,  with  dishes  set  up  behind 
slats  on  the  wall ;  and  I  came  away  and  forgot  my 
lovely  bouquet  of  edelweiss  and  cyclamen,  my  fare- 
well gift  from  the  head-waiter  at  the  Watzman  in 
Berchtesgaden.  Always  at  these  German  inns  they 
give  you,  when  you  go  away,  a  bouquet  of  flowers ; 
sometimes  you  will  see  a  carriage  full  of  people  driv- 
ing off  with  four  or  five  beautiful  bunches  of  flowers. 
When  we  left  the  house  of  the  Golden  Star,  kept  by 
the  five  sisters  Barbaria,  in  the  Ampezzo  Pass,  at  Cor- 
tina, they  gave  us  each  a  bunch  of  the  most  superb 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TEA  VELLER      243 

great  geranium  blossoms  and  roses,  all  cut  from  the 
plants  in  their  dining-room.  How  they  could  have  had 
the  heart  to  cut  offso  many,  I  don't  know ;  though,  to  be 
sure,  the  windows  looked  just  as  full  of  flowers  when 
we  drove  ofl"  as  when  we  arrived. 

At  four  o'clock,  Grolling.  Pouring  rain!  0,  how 
we  chafed  and  fretted,  for  at  GoUing  is  the  waterfall  I 
"  Scharzback,  one  of  the  finest  in  the  German  Alps," 
said  Murray,  and  supposed  to  be  outlet  of  our  dear 
Koenigsee  at  Berchtesgaden,  and  this  we  meant  to  see 
before  dark.  Could  we  drive  to  it?  "0  yes."  So  I  said 
resolutely,  "  I  shall  take  an  einspanner  and  go."  The 
girls  went  to  bed,  and  I  and  my  httle  dwarf  man  of  a 
driver  started  off.  The  rain  delusively  held  up  for 
me  to  start ;  once  down  in  the  meadow,  then  it  had 
me,  and  began  to  flood  the  very  road.  Poor  Dwarf 
shifted  his  seat  from  puddle  to  puddle  on  the  seat; 
now  and  then  he  looked  back  imploringly  at  me ;  but 
I  was  snugged  up  under  the  boot  as  dry  as  a  chip, 
and  they  had  told  him  that  the  daCae  could  not  speak  a 
word  of  German ;  so  what  could  he  do?  Then  it  began 
to  thunder  and  lighten ;  and  the  horse  plunged,  which 
is  n't  a  nice  thing  in  an  einspanner.  (0,  I  have  never 
yet  told  you  about  an  einspanner,  I  will.)  At  last  the 
man  drew  up  in  front  of  a  little  house,  or  room  rather, 
for  beer  drinking,  and  made  signs  to  me  that  I  should 
jump  out ;  so  I  did,  and  there  I  waited  till  the  worst 
went  by.  A  good-natured  German  woman  came  in, 
hoping  to  sell  me  beer,  and  we  talked  about  the 
weather ;  with  my  eyes  and  hands  I  talked,  and  a  few 
ejaculatory  substantives,  and  then  I  made  a  pun  in  Ger- 
man, which  tickled  her  and  the  driver  so  that  they 
roared.  I  said  (never  mind  the  German),  "  I  wish  see 
waterfall,  much  waterfall  !  "  pointing  to  the  sky. 
Waterfall  in  German  is  "  wasser  fall "  ;  that  's  how  T 
happened  to  know  it,  it  is  so  like  the  English.  Then 
they  both  began  to  talk  German  to  me  in  torrents; 
and  I  was  glad  to  escape  into  the  carriage.     The  man 


244 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


led  the  horse  up  a  gully  road  for  quarter  of  a  mile,  and 
then  stopped  and  said  I  was  to  walk  the  rest  of  the 

way 

Monday^  August  16.  —  This  letter  is  sure  to  be  the 
worst  I  ever  sent  you,  dear  souls.  It  is  a  kind  of  wash- 
ing-day-dinner letter.  You  '11  eat  it  because  you  can't 
get  any  other,  and  you  won't  be  as  hungry  as  if  you 
liad  eaten  nothing ;  but  don't  we  all  hate  Monday  din- 
ners ?  Now  you  see  there  is  nothing  left  of  that  water- 
fall, for  since  August  11,  when  I  began  this  letter, 
I  've  cooked  it  for  a  newspaper !  It  fitted  and  slipped 
In  so  naturally  into  a  letter  I  was  writing  J  could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  serA^e  it  hot  a  la  carte  to  those 
customers,  and  this  is  all  you  '11  get  of  it,  unless  you 
look  up  the  waiter  who  carried  it  off.  But  nobody 
else  but  you  will  be  told  how  funny  it  aU  was  when  we 
did  really  reach  Gastein.  It  was  at  noon  of  "Wednes- 
day. We  began  to  grow  nervous  as  we  drew  near  the 
town,  because  we  had  had  no  answer  to  our  telegram 
for  rooms ;  and  the  riiinute  we  drove  into  the  little  Platz 
before  the  Straubinger  Hotel  we  had  an  instinct  that 
there  was  a  clear  case  for  Mr.  Malthus  in  this  town.  A 
pompous  fellow  in  a  white  waistcoat  met  us.  Yes,  he 
had  received  our  telegram.  Sorry  he  could  not  give  us 
rooms  in  the  house.  He  had  taken  them  for  us  in  the 
Schloss,  the  great  stone  house  opposite.  So  we  drove  up 
the  side  of  a  house,  —  !  mean  hill,  but  it  was  as  steep, 
—  and  faced  the  proprietor  there.  Big  man,  big  hall,  big 
blackboard  with  numbers  of  the  rooms  in  the  house, 
and  the  occupants'  names  written  in  chalk  on  it !  Yes, 
the  landlord  of  Straul linger  had  taken  a  room  for  us ; 
this  was  it.  "  No.  16,  Lord  Cavendish  "  !  Now  if  any- 
thing in  this  world  could  be  plain,  one  would  think  it 
might  be  the  fact  that  three  American  women  were 

not  "Lord  Cavendish";  but  for  half  an  hour  poor  N 

and  the  landlord  bowed  and  jabbered  to  each  other  in. 
vain  to  clear  up  this  point.  Back  we  drove  to  the 
hotel  again.     Yes,  that  was  our  room.     Lord  Caven- 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


245 


dish  would  not  arrive  till  Saturday.  We  timidly  said 
that  we  had  telegraphed  for  three  rooms,  and  that 
however  double  or  triple  Lord  Cavendish  might  be,  and 
yet  be  satisfied  with  one  room,  we  wanted  three.      At 

last  we  got  one  more,  a  flight  higher  up  ;  P and  I 

took  the  noble  lord's  apartment,  and  N went  up 

stairs.  A  very  fine  room  ours  was  ;  four  windows,  two 
beds,  and  wardrobes  and  tables  and  secretaries  in 
quantity.  But  such  a  noise  !  It  was  over  the  water- 
fall. A  waterfall  three  hundred  feet  high,  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  town,  is  the  most  picturesque  thing  I  ever 
saw ;  but  the  effect  of  it  on  the  human  ear  is  some- 
thing not  to  be  endured.  You  feel  as  if  you  had  just 
got  into  New  York  in  twenty  steamboats,  and  they 
were  all  letting  off"  steam  at  once  under  your  stateroom 
window.  "  Well,  Lord  Cavendish,"  said  we,  "  you  are 
welcome  to  your  room  on  Saturday  morning.  English 
nerves  may  stand  this  racket  better  than  American." 

In  the  night  P and  I  called   out  to  each  other, 

"  Are  you  awake  ?  don't  you  think  it  gets  louder  every 
minute  ? "  We  felt  as  if  we  were  part  of  it,  at  last, 
and  going  down  head-foremost  over  rocks.  Breakfast 
and  tea  in  our  room,  not  bad ;  dinner  over  at  the  Hotel 
Straubingers  at  one  o'clock  for  a  florin,  at  three  o'clock 
for  two  florins ;  being  bent  on  economy,  we  went 
at  one.  Babel  let  loose !  Why  people  talk  about 
American  tables  d'hote  I  can't  imagine;  we  don't  make 
half  so  much  noise,  nor  make  knives  fly  in  and  out 
of  throats,  nor  do  some  other  things  which  Germans 
do,  but  which  I  could  not  even  bring  myself  to  writa 
We  are  much  more  civilized  than  I  supposed  we  were 
in  comparison  with  the  peoples  I  have  seen  thus  far. 
Not  a  window  open ;  a  German  would  think  he  was 
sure  to  die,  with  an  open  window  at  his  back.  One 
hundred  people  in  a  room  which  ought  to  hold  only 
fifty.  A  narrow  plank-wide  table  in  the  middle,  and 
one  a  little  broader  all  round  the  room.  Hungarian  to 
right  of  yoUj  Russian  in  front,  French  and  German  to 


246     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

left,  and  English  silence  just  beyond.  Waiters  bring- 
ing, first,  soup,  with  watery  bread  in  it;  roast  beef, 
done  black,  and  swimming  in  gravy,  and  cucumbers 
served  with  it ;  junks  of  fat  bacon,  and  an  indescriba- 
ble bean-mush  served  with  that ;  roast  veal,  and  stewed 
plums  to  eat  with  that ;  and  then  fried  griddle-cakes, 
chopped  up  and  spooned  out  for  dessert.  That  is  the 
wholesome  and  nourishing  dinner  you  get  at  Strau- 
binger's  for  one  florin.  There  are  other  hotels  here, 
worse  At  three  o'clock,  for  two  florins  you  get 
several  more  courses,  and  a  good  deal  of  fol-de-rol  lor 
dessert;  but  it  is  all  of  a  piece,  and  you  may  as  well 
save  your  extra  florin,  and  spend  it  for  fruit  at  the 
peasant  woman's  stand  opposite  the  hotel.  We  cruised 
about  town ;  smelt  and  tasted  of  all  the  hot  springs  and 
cold,  poked  into  the  cavern  where  some  of  them  are 
dripping,  got  drenched  with  the  waterfall,  looked  at 
all  the  booths  and  things  to  sell  and  went  to  bed,  hav- 
ing engaged  our  driver  to  take  us  back  to  Salzburg  on 
Saturday  morning.  On  Friday  afternoon  I  was  attacked 
with  a  sore-throat.  Saturday  morning,  no  better. 
Lord  Cavendish  impending.  Gustav,  the  kind  and 
pompous  head-man  at  Straubinger's,  in  despair.  I  bun' 
die  up,  and  go  over  to  small  room  in  his  hotel ;  girls  in 
another.  Sunday  morning,  no  better.  Driver  behaved 
like  a  villain,  refused  to  release  us  from  our  bargain, 
and  insisted  on  being  paid  ten  dollars  a  day  while  he 
waited.  Of  course  I  could  not  get  better  in  such  a 
state  of  things ;  five  English  people  coming  to  take 
these  rooms  on  Monday  morning.  Never,  I  think,  in 
all  my  life  did  it  appear  to  me  so  inconvenient  and 
perplexing  a  thing  that  I  should  exist  as  for  a  few 
hours  that  Sunday  morning.  At  last  I  made  a  coup 
d'etat.  I  conspired  with  the  good  angel  of  a  doctor; 
engaged  a  room  in  the  priest's  house,  a  few  doors  from 
the  hotel,  and  then  told  the  girls  I  should  stay  two 
weeks  and  they  must  go.  I  knew,  as  far  as  one  can 
know  anything,  that  I  should  be  entirely  well  in  two 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER.     247 

or  three  days.  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  Gastein,  and 
I  promised  to  telegraph  to  them  instantly  if  I  were  not 
so  well.  The  doctor  speaks  English  perfectly.  I  knew 
that  friends  from  New  Haven  were  coming  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  I  was  sure  I  should  never  get  well  so  long  as 
I  felt  that  I  was  keeping  my  friends  here,  and  we  were 
paying  ten  dollars  a  day  for  the  rascally  driver.  It 
was  hard  to  make  them  go,  but  I  succeeded ;  and  in  less 
than  twenty-four  hours  after  they  left  I  was  quite 
well ;  the  third  day  I  walked  all  over  town.  I  hurry 
to  this  consummation  of  the  story,  because  I  know  just 
with  what  dismay  you  will  have  been  reading  the  last 
page.  Now  I  will  go  back  and  give  the  picture  of  the 
days  a  little  touchmg  up.  Sunday  afternoon  I  moved 
down  to  the  priest's  house,  —  one  of  the  nicest  in  town, 
and  crowded  full  of  lodgers ;  only  just  this  one  de- 
lightful front  room  vacated  for  me  the  day  before,  and 
to  be  vacant  just  three  days,  and  no  more,  — just  the 
length  of  time  which  must  pass  before  the  dear  doctor 
could  give  me  a  room  in  his  own  house.  All  fhings 
seemed  to  work  so  singularly  that  I  began  to  feel 
as  resigned  as  a  log,  waiting  to  see  into  what  corner  I 
should  drift  next.  The  girls  came  down  and  took  tea 
with  me  in  my  new  quarters,  and  I  was  all  unpacked 
and  in  order  in  an  hour.  At  nine  o'clock  a  tap  at  my 
door,  and  there  stood  the  sweetest-faced,  saddest- 
faced  girl,  perhaps  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old, 
but  hopelessly  dwarfed  and  deformed.  "  I  heard  that 
you  were  English  and  did  not  speak  German,  and  I 
came  to  see  if  there  were  anything  I  could  say  for  you 
to  the  maid  before  bedtime,"  said  she,  in  the  gentlest, 
but  most  pathetic  voice  I  ever  heard.  Do  you  suppose 
you  can  any  of  you  have  an  idea  how  I  felt  at  that 
moment?  \  did  not  know  till  then  that  I  had  had 
a  shade  of  misgiving  about  being  alone ;  but  by  the 
warm  rush  into  my  cheeks  and  eyes  at  sight  of  her  I 
found  out  that  I  had.  I  think  I  shall  never  see  any 
face  which  will  look  to  me  so  beautiful  as  does  th© 


i48     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

face  of  that  poor  dwarf  girl ;  but  it  is  not  beautiful  at 
all.  The  next  morning  she  came  and  sat  with  me  for 
a  long  time,  and  I  have  seen  her  every  day  since. 
She  is  a  Hungarian  Her  father  is  the  president  of  the 
highest  tribunal  at  Pesth,  and  he  is  here  for  his  health. 
Her  mother  is  one  of  the  most  glorious  specimens  of 
what  a  woman  can  be  at  forty -five  I  have  ever  seen. 
Think  of  her  walking  last  week  up  the  Gamskogel  and 
back,  —  nine  hours  of  hard  and  even  perilous  climbing ; 
and  she  laughed  when  I  asked  her  if  she  were  not 
tired.  They  urged  me  to  join  the  party  and  go  on 
horseback,  —  several  members  of  it  (all  Hungarian) 
speaking  English  well,  she  said,  —  but  I  dared  not  try  it 
even  on  a  horse.  How  can  one  keep  that  tenth  com- 
mandment in  presence  of  such  strength  as  this !  Legs 
and  languages  I  Let  nobody  expect  to  be  happy  in 
Europe  without  two  very  strong  specimens  of  the  one, 
and  at  least  four  of  the  other.  I  could  not  tell  you  if  I 
tried  how  kind  and  lovable  and  bright  these  people 
are.  I  have  always  heard  that  the  Hungarian  nature 
was  a  rarely  fine  and  sensitive  one,  and  since  I  have 
known  this  mother  and  daughter  I  can  easily  believe  it. 
There  is  a  subtle  something  in  their  atmosphere  I  never 
before  found,  and  cannot  put  into  words;  a  fine 
aroma  of  soul  all  the  while  making  beautiful  the  small- 
est word  or  gesture.  The  radiant  tenderness  with 
which  the  mother  looks  every  moment  at  the  daughter 
whose  life  is  so  blighted,  and  the  brave  gayety  and  love " 
with  which  Jozsa  looks  back.  I  forget  to  speak  some- 
times, watching  the  marvel  of  it.  Jozsa  has  studied 
English  but  six  months,  and  she  speaks  well  and  under- 
stands all  T  say.  This  puts  me  to  such  shame  when  I 
think  of  my  six  months  in  Italy,  and  that  to-day  I 
could  not  do  more  in  Italian  than  perhaps  to  order  a 
dinner  or  dispute  with  a  cocMere.  Well,  there  were 
three  days  at  the  priest's  house ;  dainty  breakfasts  and 
teas  served  by  the  most  ruffled  and  linen-clad  of  house' 
keepers ;  horrible  dinners  sent  down  in  layers  of  stone' 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


249 


china  from  Straubinger's ;  long  talks  with  Jozsa,  and 
sametimes  four  or  five  calls  a  day  from  the  kindly 
doctor,  who,  having  only  sixty  patients  to  see  each  day, 
is  so  running  over  with  benevolence  and  good- will  that 
he  is  constantly  doing  odd  jobs  of  helping  for  every- 
body he  can  find  in  need  of  him.  "  Is  there  anything 
I  can  order  for  you  ?  "  he  would  cry  out  almost  before 
opening  the  door,  and  down  stairs  again  before  I  had 
half  said,  "  No,  thank  you."  Then  it  would  be  a  book, 
then  a  newspaper,  and  then  my  letters  and  papers,  for 
they  took  to  coming,  too,  just  at  this  crisis  in  my  affairs. 
Ah !  you  need  n't  suppose  those  three  days  in  the 
house  of  the  G-astein  cure,  were  dreary.  I  spent  half 
the  time  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  looking  out  over  the 
waterfall  at  the  mountain  wall  to  the  west ;  green  to 
the  very  top,  and  so  high,  the  sky  seems  resting  on  it 
hke  a  ceiling.  I  ought  to  have  written,  but  I  did  not, 
and  that  is  the  reason  your  letter  is  late. 

On  Thursday  I  moved  again,  —  the  fourth  lodging  in 
a  week,  —  up  to  the  house  of  the  good  doctor.  He  was 
much  concerned,  because  in  the  priest's  house  I  had  been 
somewhat  sumptuously  bestowed  (for  Gastein  and  his 
simplicity),  and  in  his  house  I  was  to  come  to  an  attic 
chamber  and  plainer  furnishings,  and  he  did  not  know 
me  well  enough  to  be  sure  I  would  not  miss  the  gilt 
curtain-fixtures  and  the  big  looking-glass.  I  could  see 
some  distress  in  his  face  as  he  ran  up  stairs  before  me, 
carrying  a  lovely  little  rosebush  in  his  hand,  which  he 
set  on  my  window-sill.  Ah,  if  I  had  not  been  satisfied  ! 
An  attic  room,  to  be  sure,  and  only  a  bed  and  bureau 
and  washstand  and  lounge,  and  two  tables  in  it ;  but 
from  each  window  such  mountains  to  be  seen  as  I  have 
never  yet  looked  on.  This  Gastein  is  almost  at  end  of 
roads !  You  can  drive  four  miles  farther  to  Bockstein, 
and  there  the  mountains  close  in  like  an  army  of  giants, 
and  there  is  no  more  going  that  way,  except  on  horse- 
back or  on  foot,  through  dangerous  and  difficult  passes. 
Four  of  these  mountains  I  see  from  my  windows  ;  from 
11* 


250      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

my  writing-table  I  look  down  on  the  whole  town ;  for 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  the  house  is  high  up  above 
everything,  a  quarter  of  the  way  up  the  west  wall  of 
the  Grastein  valley.  It  only  takes  me  ten  minutes  to 
walk  down  to  Straubinger's ;  but  it  is  all  the  way  like 
going  down  stairs. 

Then  came  Marie  the  housekeeper,  and  kissed  my 
hand ;  and  she,  too,  brought  a  rose  with  her,  and  a  few 
forget-me-nots.  Then  I  hung  six  of  you,  dear  people, 
up  over  my  writing-table,  and  sat  down,  and  that  was 
the  beginning  of  my  fourth  era  of  Gastein  !  Since  then 
I  have  had  more  perturbations  of  another  kind,  which  I 
cannot  tell  in  a  letter,  they  being  too  long  and  stupid ; 
having  relation  only  to  telegraph  messages  and  missing 
relatives.  In  short,  the  story  is :  letter  on  Saturday 
night  from  my  dear  sister,  in  Salzburg,  giving  no  ad- 
dress of  hotel !  all  Sunday  spent  in  vain  attempts  to 
telegraph  to  her  there  ;  finally  I  am  rewarded  by  the 

information  that  Madame  H had  been  there,  but 

gone,  and  left  her  trunk  at  the  Bankers  Trauner. 
This  is  the  advantage  of  being  of  one  family !    I  being 

the  Madame  H who  had  left  a  trunk  in  charge  of 

the  Bankers  Trauner ;  and  my  sister  being  all  the  while 
sitting  quiet  and  unhappy  in  the  Hotel  Nelboeck,  quite 
unaware  that  she  never  dated  her  letter.  At  last,  late 
at  night,  I  get  track  of  her  through  Dr.  Proell's  brother, 
who  lives  in  Salzburg,  and  to  whom  the  doctor  had  tele- 
graphed to  go  to  all  hotels  in  the  city  and  look  her  up. 
But  I  am  not  much  happier  than  before  ;  the  message 
is,  "  We  leave  for  Munich  to-morrow  morning."  Such 
are  the  contingencies  and  vicissitudes,  my  dear  people, 
of  being  "  round  loose "  in  this  part  of  the  world. 
How  would  you  like  it  ?  To  see  your  dearest  friends 
whisked  off  in  that  way  from  under  your  nose  and  eyes 
is  a  test  of  one's  patience.  If  my  sister  had  dated  her 
letter  I  should  have  taken  post-horses  and  dashed  down 
to  Salzburg  to  see  her ;  but  as  the  postmark  of  the 
letter  was  the  oply  proof  I  had  of  her  being  there,  I 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      2-\ 

had  not  quite  courage  to  go  on  the  venture,  not  being 
yet  able  to  speak  more  than  two  thousand  words  of 
German. 

Tuesday  Eve,  August  17. — Who  ever  thought  I 
should  live  to  do  what  I  have  been  doing  to-night,  and 
who  ever  could  guess  what  it  is?  Lighting  candles  in 
honor  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria's  birthday !  Ah,  my 
people,  if  you  could  but  have  seen  the  little  town  an 
hour  ago,  and  the  Villa  Proell,  —  for  that  is  what  we  on 
this  height  are  called.  Every  house  in  town  was  gayly 
ht  from  roof  to  cellar,  and  rockets  going  up  among  the 
fir-trees,  and  I  patting  about  the  village  with  the  doc- 
tor looking  at  it  all.  We  were  very  proud  of  our 
house,  which  was  by  far  the  gayest,  having  lights  on 
the  balconies  behind  the  lattice-work,  and  at  every 
window,  and  having  the  Austrian  flag  at  one  corner 
and  the  Hungarian  at  the  other.  J  lit  the  candles  on 
the  upper  balcony  and  at  my  windows  with  my  own 
hands,  just  to  say  that  I  did  it,  not  out  of  any  love 
for  the  Emperor.  But  the  waterfall  was  the  wonder 
of  the  night ;  it  is  one  of  the  sights  I  shall  never  for- 
get, —  lit  at  bottom  by  a  fiery  red  light  and  at  top  by  a 
brilliant  blue.  Can  you  try  to  fancy  how  a  foaming 
cascade  three  hundred  feet  high  would  look,  lit  with 
blue  and  red,  the  foam  sparkling  off  like  stars  of  a 
rocket,  and  the  fir-trees  standing  out  in  the  glow,  as  if 
they  were  drawn  with  a  fiery  pencil  on  the  sky? 
Then  the  moon  came  up  from  behind  one  of  the  moun- 
tains and  gave  an  atmosphere  of  peace  to  the  whole. 
Very  thrifty  are  the  good  German  people,  though,  with 
all  their  patriotism ;  they  are  beginning  already  to  blow 
out  the  candles,  and  it  is  not  nine  o'clock  ;  here  comes 
the  servant  past  my  window  blowing  out  ours.  I  do 
not  think  more  than  three  inches  of  the  candles  have 
been  burnt  up. 

Now  I  shall  give  you  an  exact  list  of  the  things 
which  are  suspended  on  the  front  of  this  house.  You 
will  not  believe  me,  but  it  will  be  true.      Nobody 


252 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


could  believe,  till  they  saw  it,  the  childlikeness  of  these 
Germans.  From  first  balcony,  a  yellow  fuzzy  hearth- 
rug ,  on  top  of  it  a  flower-pot  with  gay  paper  round  it 
and  an  imitation  lemon-tree  in  it.  From  second  bal- 
cony, a  blue  and  white  tablecloth;  pinned  in  cen- 
tre of  the  tablecloth  something  cut  out  of  colored 
paper,  which  I  take  to  be  a  coat  of  arms ;  above  table- 
cloth, a  white  sheet  on  a  frame^  with  F.  J.  in  large 
gilt-paper  letters ;  above  these,  on  the  white  sheet,  two 
worsted  mats,  one  crimson  and  one  green  (a  pres- 
ent to  the  doctor  from  an  English  lady  yesterday,  for 
Ms  birthday  is  also  to-day).  These  have  a  very  strik- 
ing effect  as  an  outdoor  decoration.  On  the  third 
balcony,  a  black  and  yellow  tablecloth,  the  Austrian 
flag  in  one  corner,  with  a  green  bough  at  end  of  it  and 
the  Hungarian  flag  in  the  other  corner.  Now,  do  you 
believe  me  ?  Because  if  you  don't  T  will  tell  you  some- 
thing droller  still.  Last  night  the  doctor  and  his 
brother,  and  brother's  wife,  and  Baroness  Strauss,  who 
are  visiting  him,  had  a  small  festivity  in  honor  of  his 
birthday,  and  this  morning  he  sent  up  to  my  room  two 
of  the  adornments  of  his  office  on  the  occasion.  One 
was  a  wreath  of  purple  thistles,  and  the  other  was 
a  large  oval  of  white  paper  wreathed  with  oats,  plan- 
tain-leaves, may -weed,  and  grass,  with  two  small  car- 
rots, tops  and  all,  at  bottom.  Ophelia  herself  could  not 
have  tied  up  anything  crazier.  In  the  centre  of  this  a 
shockingly  bad  photograph  of  the  doctor,  and  around 
it  written,  "  This  likeness  is  considered  beautiful,  Don 
Juan."  Now,  if  you  do  not  believe  this,  I  cannot 
tell  you  anything  more.  I  for  my  part,  am  heartily 
in  love  with  their  simple-heartedness,  and  I  feel  so 
ashamed  of  myself  to  have  outgrown  thistle-wreatlis 
and  carrots  and  tablecloths.  It  is  a  new  experience 
for  me  to  see  people  pleased  with  even  smaller  things 
than  please  me. 

Wednesday,  August  18.  —  Really  now,  dear  souls, 
the  letter  must  go.     I  know  it  is  a  patchwork,  and 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     253 

I  am  afraid  to  look  at  the  seams.  I  am  at  end  of 
my  paper  too,  and  have  cribbed  these  last  sheets  from 
Dr.  Proell's  office.  I  ought  to  tell  you  more  about 
him,  but  it  would  be  a  tale  by  itself.  I  have  just  come 
from  dinner,  and  he  has  given  me  a  little  German 
verse  which  his  brother  wrote,  as  part  of  the  birthday 
sport ;  his  brother  is  the  first  advocate  in  Linz,  and  as 
clever  in  his  profession  as  Dr.  Grustave  in  his. 

"  If  in  high  heaven  happy  saints  had  need 
Of  some  good,  wise,  and  faithful  soul 
For  doctor,  God  would  surely  send  with  speed 

For  this  dear  man,  Gustavus  Proell. 
But  since  in  heaven  haste  is  not  aUowed, 

And  since  to  blessed  sweet  Gastein 
The  sick  of  nations  come  in  yearly  crowd, 
God  leaves  him  here.     But  if  Divine 
Compassion  could  but  see  how  o'er  the  roads  he  springs, 
He  quickly  would  provide  him  with  a  pair  of  wings." 

What  do  you  think  of  my  progress  in  German,  my  first 
effort  at  translation?  For  a  six  weeks'  scholar  is  it 
not  good,  considering  that  my  only  teachers  have  been 
waiters,  chambermaids,  and  landlords?  How  stupid  to 
waste  room  on  such  nonsense  !  Of  course  I  only  trans- 
lated it  by  having  it  read  to  me.  Now  do  you  have 
an  idea  of  how  I  am  getting  naturalized  here  ?  I  should 
take  root  in  Germany  much  more  easily  than  in  Italy, 
with  all  its  beauty.    This  morning  I  have  been  with 

Miss  S to  hear  the  grand  mass  for  the  Emperor,  in 

the  little  stone  chapel  of  St.  Nicolai,  which  you  will  see 
in  the  picture.  There  were  two  grand  dignitaries  there 
with  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  If  I  had  only 
known  it  beforehand  I  would  have  looked  harder  at 
them ;  but  as  it  was,  I  looked  at  a  poor  peasant  woman 
who  knelt  on  the  stone  floor  by  their  side  from  begin- 
ning to  end  of  the  mass.  Afterwards  we  drove  up  to- 
wards the  Kotschackthal,  which  you  will  also  see.  It 
is  a  delight  to  send  you  these  pictures.  I  wonder  I 
never  thought  of  it  before ;  when  I  come  home  it  will 
be  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  see  them  again.    I  only 


2  54     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

wish  I  could  spend  twenty  dollars  a  month  in  photo- 
graphs and  bnng  home  all  the  places  I  see. 

Here  comes  Marie  the  housekeeper  with  a  little 
bunch  of  flowers  for  me,  because  it  is  the  18th  of  Au- 
gust, day  of  St.  Helena,  and  the  doctor  has  told  her 
it  is  my  "  name-day,"  as  they  call  it.  Mane  is  an  old 
family  servant,  in  whose  arms  the  doctor's  mother 
died,  and  she  keeps  house  for  him,  and  looks  after  his 
interests  as  if  he  were  a  child  of  her  own.  She  is 
always,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  either  lockmg  up  or  un- 
lockmg  some  of  his  goods.  Grood  by,  and  good  by, 
with  love  and  love. 


Bad  Gastein,  Sunday  morning,  September  5, 1869. 

DEAREST  PEOPLE :  Behold  me  stiU  in  Gastein. 
Shall  I  ever  go  away  ?  The  Fates  have  it  settled, 
I  suppose;  but  I  should  not  dream  of  saying  that  I 
knew  I  should  do  anything  so  against  nature  as  to 
leave  this  eagle's-nest.      Rooms  are  engaged  for  the 

3 s  and  for  me  at  the  Bayerischer  Hof,  in  Munich, 

on  Monday,  the  13  th  of  September.  A  good  man  with 
an  einspanner  is  engaged  to  take  me  to  Salzburg  next 
Friday  and  Saturday ;  but  whether  I  go  or  not  I  shall 
doubt  up  to  the  last  minute.  Think  of  coming  to  stay 
four  days,  and  staying  five  weeks.  It  has  been  a 
lesson  to  me  in  the  matter  of  clothes ;  my  black  trav- 
elling  dress  has  come  to  be  to  me  as  much  like  my  skin 
as  if  I  were  a  chamois  and  it  were  my  fur ;  to  be  sure, 
my  wrapper  has  come  out  at  both  elbows,  and  the 
washerwomen  have  torn  each  of  my  two  nightgowns. 
There  are  inconveniences  attending  the  living  for  five 
weeks  in  the  clothing  intended  for  four  days,  it  must  be 
owned;  but  to  have  found  out  that  one  can  do  it  is 
something.  I  find  myself  thinking  with  some  dismay 
of  the  big  trunk  of  superfluous  things  I  own  in  Sal^ 
burg. 

Now  what  shall  I  tell  you  about  smce  I  have  to 
write  a  second  letter  from  Gastein  ?  Did  I  put  in  all 
the  mountains  and  the  waterfalls  in  my  last  letter? 
Bless  their  grand  old  faces !  if  I  wrote  you  a  letter 
every  day  and  all  about  them,  I  should  never  get  them 
in.  They  are  never  twice  alike.  Yesterday  they  were 
so  cold  and  stern  that  it  would  have  been  easy  to  be 
afraid.  To-day  they  are  so  soft  and  warm  that  they 
bring  tears  into  my  eyes.    If  they  look  hke  this  the  day 


256     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

I  go  away  it  will  break  my  heart.  I  must  put  more 
pictures  into  this  letter  to  try  and  show  you  a  little 
more  of  this  wonderful  blessed  spot.  But  there  is  no 
picture  of  the  view  I  want  most  to  send  you,  and  that 
is  the  view  from  the  balconies  of  this  house.  I  do  not 
sleep  on  the  balcony,  but  that  is  the  only  thing  I  do  not 
do  on  it.  I  live  and  move  and  have  my  being  on  it. 
The  town  is  at  my  feet,  —  that  you  can  understand  from 
the  picture ;  but  you  cannot  understand  how  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  valley  —  that  is,  the  east  wall — looks,  and 
that  is  the  glory  of  all.  It  is  the  whole  of  a  mountain, 
and  to  the  south  and  north  of  it  are  other  mountains, 
and  they  have  their  feet  braced  and  interlocked  with 
each  other  in  that  wonderful  way  which  mountains 
have,  whereby  are  made  depths  of  valleys  and  ravine 
beds  for  streams.  Into  three  such  valleys  —  no,  not 
into  them,  but  across  them  —  I  look  now  ;  they  come 
down  at  nearly  right  angles  into  the  Gastein  and  the 
Bockstein  valley ;  and  to-day  they  are  all  so  flooded 
with  sun,  that  way  up,  almost  to  the  very  top,  I  can 
see  the  shadow  of  each  fir-tree  thrown  on  the  ground. 
We  have  not  had  so  delicious  a  sun  for  a  week;  my 
feet  are  toasting  in  it  at  this  moment  as  before  a  wood- 
fire.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  draw  them  in  from  the 
lattice-work  of  the  balcony  (which  makes  my  best 
cricket),  for  I  think  the  thermometer  would  be  about 
110°  just  at  my  toes;  and  yet  the  air  is  so  cool  that  I 
Jike  a  shawl,  or  even  a  waterproof,  over  my  shoulders; 
and  at  six  o'clock  to-night  I  shall  have  a  wood-fire  in 
my  stove. 

0,  how  shall  I  tell  you  about  this  opposite  h'lllside ! 
It  cries  out  to  me  to  let  it  alone,  that  not  even  an 
artist  could  paint  it,  it  is  enough  that  it  is ;  but  I  am 
restless  with  my  desire  to  make  you  see  it.  It  is 
eight  thousand  feet  high,  to  begin  with.  At  top  it 
is  bald  and  bleak,  many  days  snowy ;  but,  so  far  up  that 
I  cannot  distinguish  the  points  of  the  fir-trees,  it  is 
green,  green  as  a  field  of  spring  wheat.    Fancy  it!    Half 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


257 


forest,  half  pasture ;  little  brown  threads  of  fence  lining 
it  off  here  and  there,  and  here  and  there  a  little  brown 
house  or  barn.  One  third  of  the  way  up  is  a  small 
white  house,  the  Windischgratz  Cafe.     Up  to  that  I 

climbed,  day  before  yesterday,  with  poor  little  E 

K carried  in  a  trag-sessel  (sedan-chair).    Ever  since 

I  have  been  here  it  has  been  beckoning  me  up  there,  but 
the  day  never  came  for  it  until  Friday.  I  thought  I  knew 
how  high  it  was;  but  when  I  got  there  and  looked 
down  into  the  valley  of  Hof-G-astein  on  one  side,  and 
Bockstein  on  the  other,  and  saw  all  the  village  of  my 
G-astein  in  a  little  confused  dark  mass  at  my  feet, 
and  the  Villa  ProU,  which  I  thought  in  the  clouds, 
down  almost  out  of  sight  under  a  wood,  then  I  found 
out  how  high  the  Windischgratz  Coffee-house  is ;  and 
now  you  can  remember  that  I  tell  you  that  it  is  cer- 
tainly not  more  than  one  third  of  the  way  up  the 
mountain  wall,  out  on  which  I  look  all  day ;  and,  re- 
membering this,  can  you  begin  to  see  what  I  see  ?  In 
the  early  morning,  when  the  sun  is  but  just  above  it,  it 
is  all  in  soft  mist,  great  broad  beams  of  mist  such  as  we 
see  when  we  say  "  the  sun  is  drawing  water."  Until 
eleven  o'clock  I  always  think  that  this  is  its  most 
beautiful  time ;  then  it  is  in  clear  sun,  and  I  can  count 
every  shadow  of  every  tree,  and  almost  see  down  to 
the  very  roots  of  the  trees  in  the  forests,  and  I  think 
that  is  the  most  beautiful  time ;  and  then  in  the  late 
afternoon,  when  it  darkens  again,  and  the  fir-trees  look 
black  and  the  fields  look  gray,  I  think  that  is  the  most 
beautiful  time.  This  is  the  way  with  lovers.  Do  you 
not  pity  me  that  I  go  away  ?  If  I  do  not  suffer  a  little 
at  first,  like  a  transplanted  tree,  it  will  be  strange. 
Have  you  any  wonder  what  I  do  in  this  valley  that  1 
love  it  so  ?  I  should  think  you  would  have,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  be  as  puzzled  as  the  fir-trees  to  tell. 
In  the  morning  at  seven,  Marie,  the  housekeeper, 
comes  and  gives  a  shadowy  little  knock  at  my  door, 
thinking  perhaps  I  may  be   asleep,   though   she  has 

Q 


258     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

never  yet  found  me  so  in  all  these  four  weeks.  She 
comes  in  with  a  jingle  like  a  sleigh,  for  she  has  the. 
keys  of  everything  hanging  at  her  waist.  "  Kiss  the 
hand,  madame,"  she  says.  "  Slept  well  ?  0,  good, 
good !  "  and  "  Fine  weatiier,"  she  adds,  if  she  can,  and 
if  she  can't,  she  holds  her  tongue  like  a  Christian, 
and  don't  mention  the  vs^eather  at  all.  Then  I  tell  her 
what  I  will  have  for  breakfast,  and  as  I  lumber  out 
the  words  worse  and  worse  each  time,  she  says, 
"  Ah !  madame  speaks  very  good  Dutch,  very  good." 
Meantime,  Irma,  who  is  the  little  chambermaid,  has 
brought  me  two  enormous  great  brown  jugs  of  water, 
and  a  wooden  tub,  and  a  decanter  of  the  warm  spring- 
water,  with  which  I  am  trying  faithfully  to  treat  my 
throat;  the  dear  enthusiast  Dr.  Proll  having  assured 
me  over  and  over  that  if  I  will  only  gargle  the  throat 
with  this  water  several  times  a  day,  I  will  never,  no, 
never,  have  another  sore-throat.  Believing  that  my 
"  chief  end  "  was  to  have  sore-throats,  and  not  believ- 
ing very  firmly  in  any  kind  of  mineral  waters,  I  naturally 
do  not  remember  to  gargle  my  throat  so  many  times  a 
day  as  I  might ;  so  when  the  next  sore-throat  arrives, 
Dr.  Prbll  will  be  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  the  doubt 
as  to  whether  it  would  have  come  if  Gastein  water  had 
been  faithfully  used.  Breakfast  comes  in  on  a  tray 
covered  with  a  snow-clean  napkin,  —  tiny  little  white 
teapot  of  tea,  tinier  white  teapot  of  hot  water,  baby- 
house  pitcher  of  milk,  —  teapot  has  a  silver  strainer  at 
nose,  and  is  as  pretty  as  a  picture ;  but  the  nose  is  all 
wrong,  and  the  tea  runs  anywhere  but  in  the  strainer, 

"I  wish  one  thing  to  the  man  that  has  made  these 
teapots,"  says  Dr.  Proll,  "  that  he  might  be  condemned 
for  two  thousand  of  years  to  do  a  pour  out  of  one  of 
them." 

Besides  the  tea,  I  have  a  glass  of  milk,  which  Marie 
has  strained  into  the  tumbler  the  night  before,  so  there 
is  thick  cream  on  the  top ;  a  plate  of  '•  house  bread," 
which  is  brown  and  hard,  and  has  anise  seeds  in  it ;  a 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


259 


plate  of  white  bread,  which  is  as  good  as  anything  which 
is  not  home-made  bread  can  be;  a  saucer  of  raspberries 
or  blueberries,  or  an  egg,  and  the  last  evening  Post ;  — 
that  is  my  breakfast.  After  breakfast,  Marie  comes  to 
take  the  tray,  then  I  pay  for  my  breakfast,  and  make 
her  laugh  at  my  German  numerals,  as  I  insist  on  add- 
ing it  all  up  myself.  How  much  does  it  cost  ?  Butter, 
7  kreutzers ;  milk,  6 ;  bread,  7 ;  tea,  20 ;  raspberries,  8, 
—  48  kreutzers  in  all,  —  and  a  kreutzer  is,  as  near  as  t 
can  make  out,  about  three  fifths  of  a  cent.  Then,  when 
I  have  paid  for  my  breakfast,  comes  the  ordering  of 
dinner;  this  takes  dictionary,  and  Marie  and  I  have 
great  fun  over  it.  There  is  n't  much  more  variety  about 
my  dinners  than  about  my  gowns.  So  far  as  the  meat 
is  concerned,  it  is  beefsteak  or  chicken ;  then  on  many 
days  comes  what  Marie  calls  "ros-bif,"  and  that  is 
simply  beefsteak  cut  from  another  part  of  the  ox  and 
cooked  the  same  way.  They  caU  nothing  a  steak, 
except  what  we  call  "  porter-house  steaks."  I  have 
now  brought  Marie  to  the  point  of  being  able  to  bake 
potatoes,  boil  rice,  and  broil  a  steak  "  rare  " ;  so  I  con- 
sider myself  a  missionary  to  the  good  doctor's  kitchen. 
After  Marie  is  disposed  of  I  settle  down  in  my  corner 
of  the  balcony,  and  read  or  write  all  the  morning ; 
then  I  take  a  walk,  and  then  comes  dinner  at  one  or 
at  two.  Sometimes  the  dinner  is  in  the  doctor's  office, 
because  just  at  present  a  very  grand  Hungarian  countess 
has  the  saloon;  sometimes  it  is  in  the  "pavilion." 
That  sounds  grand.  Well,  now  that  the  woodbine  has 
turned  to  crimson  and  yellow  and  white,  it  is  grander 
than  any  royal  pavilion  in  the  world ;  but  except  for 
the  woodbine  it  is  only  a  little  rough  wooden  house 
with  two  sides  open,  a  plank  floor  over  the  rock,  and 
wooden  chairs  and  a  table.  To-day  we  dined  there, 
and  the  sun  shone  through  the  waU  of  woodbine,  filling 
the  air  with  reds  which  cannot  be  uttered. 

While  we  are  dining,  come  messengers   from    the 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  to  call  the  doctor ;  never 


a6o     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

yet  have  I  seen  him  left  ten  minutes  uninterrupted. 

"  Ah !  "  he  says,  "  at  the  gate  St.  Peter  will  say,  '  Who 
are  you ? '  'I  have  been  physician  at  Gastein.' 
'  Then  you  can  come  in  immediately ;  you  need  not  go 
to  purgatory.     You  have  had  it  already !  '  " 

After  dinner  a  snatch  of  German  legend,  or  an  ex- 
perience from  Dr.  Proll's  own  life,  which  is  all  like  a 
legend ;  and  then  he  is  oflf  again  for  the  rest  of  the  day 
and  most  of  the  night.  This  wonderful  man,  fifty- 
three  years  old,  walks  seven  and  eight  hours  a  day, 
seeing  patients,  and  talks  sometimes  with  sixty  people 
in  one  day,  for  all  the  peasants  flock  to  him ;  runs 
this  lodging-house  with  only  a  faithful  old  house- 
keeper to  help  him;  keeps  all  the  meteorological 
records  of  Gastein;  writes  till  midnight  and  after; 
and  then  is  up,  and  down  in  the  town  at  5  a.  m.,  to  see 
to  people  in  the  vapor-bath  I  It  is  such  a  pity  that 
some  story-wright  should  not  have  had  this  month 
under  Dr.  Proll's  roof  that  I  have  had  ;  it  would  make 
a  good  foundation  for  a  novel.  But  I  have  been  so 
stupid,  1  have  sat  dreaming  away  over  the  mountains 
and  have  not  written  out  the  stories  I  have  heard  and 
the  people  I  have  seen;  and  next  week  will  come 
Munich  and  pictures,  and  then  Vienna  and  more  pic- 
tures, and  the  woodbine  pavilion  will  fade  away.  That  is 
the  thing  that  grieves  one  most  in  Europe,  that  the  pic- 
tures will,  in  spite  of  you,  wipe  each  other  out.  Venice 
has  grown  dim  already.  I  see  that  by  the  time  I  come 
home  these  letters  will  be  as  interesting  to  me  as  they 
can  ever  have  been  to  you.  Well,  in  the  afternoon  is 
either  a  drive  or  a  walk,  and  then  the  sunset,  and  then 
bed,  after  another  season  with  Marie  on  the  subject  of 
supper,  —  whicli  consists,  if  I  am  frugal,  of  bread  and 
butter  and  milk ;  if  I  am  extravagant,  of  trout  and 
bread  and  butter  and  beer. 

This  is  all  there  is  to  a  day  at  Gastein,  but  when  I 
go  away  next  Friday,  I  shall  have  spent  thirty-five 
such  days  in  perfect  content;  and  if  I  acted  out  my 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     261 

heartiest  impulse  I  should  stay  thirty-five  more.  How 
many  of  you  will  understand  it,  I  wonder,  that  with 
Munich  and  Vienna  on  the  "  boards,"  I  cling  to  Gas- 
tein  ?  Nobody  of  you  all,  except  you  who  have  been 
with  me  at  Bethlehem. 

Yesterday  we  went  to  Bockstein,  the  little  village 
three  miles  farther  up  the  valley,  or  rather  three  miles 
farther  on,  in  a  valley  of  its  own,  which  used,  like  this 

G-astein  valley,  to  be  a  lake.  "  We  "  means  Mrs.  K , 

and  her  poor  little  daughter  E ,  who  cannot  walk, 

Miss  S ,  their  cousin,  and  I,  in  a  big  carriage ;  and 

Dr.  ProU  and  Mr.  H in  an  einspanner.    I  cannot  tell 

you  about  the  machinery  of  the  gold-mill,  which  was 
what  we  went  to  see,  for  I  do  not  remember  the  names  of 
the  "  things  "  ;  but  if  I  could  only  make  you  see  the  old 
water-wheels  which  are  standing  still  there !  Really 
they  look  as  if  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japhet  had  set  them  up 
in  the  days  of  the  beginning  of  water-privileges,  and 
had  soon  got  tired  of  the  business  and  sold  out.  Black, 
crumbling,  and  moss-grown,  there  the  wheels  stand  and 
drip,  drip,  drip,  —  for  the  water  still  runs,  as  it  ran  in 
the  days  when  the  Weitmosers  worked  the  §pld-mine, 
through  big  water-pipes  and  sluices  through  the  mid- 
dle of  the  village.  You  can  see,  in  the  picture  of  the 
village,  that  in  the  middle  of  it  the  houses  all  seem  to 
join ;  that  is  where  the  gold-mill  and  the  long  galleries 
and  water-pipes  are.  All  the  machinery  looked  as  if 
it  were  aching  to  fall  apart,  so  old  and  so  tired !  It 
seemed  somehow  unchristian  to  let  it  stay  unburied. 
An  old  workman  went  about  with  us  and  explained 
where  the  gold-stone^  were  broken,  and  where  the 
quicksilver  was  put  in  pans,  and  where  it  was  all 
melted  over  fire.  Above  the  furnace  was  an  old  dial- 
plate  like  a  clock,  with  figures  and  hands  to  mark  the 
heat  which  the  metal  had  reached  in  boiling, — how 
more  than  mute  it  looked  !  —  and  on  the  edges  of  the 
furnace  were  mouldy  fungus  growths.  After  this  was 
over,  being  in   Germany,  we  thought  of  eating,  and 


262     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

drew  up  before  the  little  inn.  Carriages  were  stand- 
ing in  the  yard,  and  people  drinking  beer  round  tables 
in  front  of  the  windows. 

Could  we  have  trout?  No.  Chicken?  No.  Beef- 
steak ?  No.  What  could  we  have  ?  Veal  and  eggs. 
The  strangers  from  Gastein  had  eaten  up  everything 
else  which  the  Bockstein  inn  possessed.  Veal  and 
eggs  are  the  two  staple  delights  of  the  German  stom- 
ach; the  veal  steaming  with  fat  and  mustard,  and  the 
eggs  horrible  with  butter  and  garlic.  Ugh  I  All  my 
life  I  shall  remember  the  egg-salad  which  dear  Marie 
added  to  our  dinner  yesterday,  and  of  which  I  tasted, 
to  appear  civil,  but  was  positively  obliged  to  swallow 
hastily,  like  calomel,  by  help  of  great  mouthfuls  of 
beer.  I  thought  I  had  tasted  of  bad  things  in  Italy, 
but  I  give  Germany  the  unquestioned  palm.  I  am 
anxious  to  know  whether  the  great  students  and  think- 
ers of  Germany  eat  the  same  sorts  of  food  which  I  have 
seen  in  Berchtesgaden  and  Gastein.  If  they  do,  it  is 
plain  that  for  the  German  nation  has  been  made  by  the 
Creator  some  peculiar  and  especial  provision  by  which 
brains  ar^  independent  of  stomachs ;  yet  dyspepsia  is  a 
rare  disease  here. 

After  we  had  to  abandon  the  idea  of  a  supper  at  the 

inn.  Dr.  Proll  took  me  in  the  einspanner,  and  the  K 

party  drove  back  disconsolate  to  Gastein ;  but  I  —  ah, 
where  did  I  go  then  ?  To  the  end  of  civilized  roads, 
up,  up,  up,  through  the  ravine  that  you  see  in  the 
picture,  to  the  very  end  of  the  road.  It  was  the  wildest 
spot  I  have  ever  seen.  Look  carefully  at  the  picture, 
and  there  will  be  no  need  of  my  describing  it.  Be- 
yond this,  there  is  no  getting  out  of  this  valley  except 
by  two  very  dangerous  passes,  on  foot  or  on  horse- 
back, over  into  Carinthia.  By  one  of  these,  Venice  can 
be  reached  in  three  days  and  a  half,  my  guide-book 
Bays.  I  think  it  means  three  years  and  a  half.  I 
know  I  am  no  nearer  than  that  to  the  Grand  Canal  and 
Luigi. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


263 


Here  comes  Marie  with  a  moss-basket  full  of  forget- 
me-nots  and  crimson  adonis  and  strawberry-leaves. 
Marie  is  a  weather-beaten  old  woman  of  fifty,  but  she 
has  yoHth  in  her  soul  for  flowers.  Everywhere  that 
she  can  set  a  pot  she  has  flowers  growing,  and  fine 
fuchsias  in  among  her  beets!  The  garden,  which  is  a 
collection  of  bits  of  soil  tucked  in  among  rocks  and  on 
strips,  is  her  special  province,  and  twinkles  in  the  sun 
like  her  own  quick-winking  eyes.  I  always  think, 
when  I  look  out  of  my  window,  that  it  is  going  up 
the  hill,  and  will  be  out  of  sight  presently,  there  is  so 
much  more  staircase  to  it  than  anything  else.  Wild 
ferns  and  pink  heath  are  here  and  there  in  unreclaimed 
corners  of  it,  and  great  piles  of  mossy  rock,  with  fir- 
trees,  and  the  pavilion,  and  a  tent,  and  an  arbor,  and  a 
sun-dial,  and  a  barometer,  and  a  raia-measurer,  and  I 
do  not  know  what  not.  And  Marie's  sister,  who  is 
a  rough  peasant,  but  is  a  true  clairvoyant,  and  has 
given  the  doctor  most  wonderful  experimental  tests 
of  the  "Od,"  —  doing  and  saying  and  reveahng  things 
which  she  no  more  understood  than  if  she  had  spoken 
in  Greek,  —  is  always  to  be  seen  groping  about  pur- 
poselessly and  giving  little  pulls  to  the  beets  and  peas 
and  potatoes,  as  if  she  were  pulling  invisible  wires  and 
sounding  bells  beneath.  She  never  pulls  them  up,  so 
far  as  I  can  see.  The  doctor  says,  "  She  likes  to  do 
it."  How  much  he  pays  her  a  week  for  this  work  I 
have  not  asked.  She  has  her  face  bound  up  in  a  white 
handkerchief^  and  wears  list  shoes  which  make  no 
noise.  Marie  always  gives  her  a  shove,  I  notice,  when 
she  comes  near  her,  and  this  is  all  I  perceive.  But  I 
ought  to  tell  about  Marie.  Eighteen  years  ago  she 
was  a  patient  of  the  doctor's  here  in  G-astein.  At  the 
same  time  a  very  poor  old  woman  was  dying  in  a  hut 
here,  of  a  horrible  disease.  When  the  doctor  told  Marie 
of  her,  she  went  instantly  to  the  hut,  and  (sick  herself) 
stayed  and  nursed  the  old  woman  till  she  died.  The  old 
woman  lay  on  straw.     Marie,  when  she  lay  anywhere, 


264     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

lay  on  the  bare  boards  of  the  top  of  a  chest.  From 
that  day  Marie  has  been  the  protector  of  the  sick  and 
dying  of  the  doctor's  family.  She  went  to  Venice, 
and  for  several  years  nursed  a  paralytic  uncte  who 
could  not  even  feed  himself.  He  died  in  her  arms. 
Then  she  went  to  Nice  and  nursed  his  brother  through 
three  years'  dying  of  consumption ;  he  died  in  her  arms. 
Then  his  mother  last  of  all,  and  she,  with  almost  her 
last  breath,  blessed  Marie.  Now  Marie  will  never 
leave  the  doctor  himself,  and  so  strong  is  her  passion 
for  nursing,  that  I  believe  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
she  feels  a  kind  of  divine  satisfaction  when  she  sees  the 
last  illness  approaching.  I  know  she  took  more  com- 
fort in  a  sore-throat  that  I  had  for  two  days  than  in 
anything  else  that  has  happened  since  I  came.  She 
has  given  her  whole  heart  to  me,  because  I  am  the 
"  only  lady  she  ever  had  in  the  house  who  was  as  nice 
as  a  gentleman !  "  This  sounds  hke  equivocal  praise, 
but  it  is  not.  She  loves  me  because  she  sees  that  she 
pleases  me  in  all  her  ways.  Every  day  she  makes 
some  new  kind  of  German  pudding  for  dinner,  and 
eyes  me  like  a  hawk  while  I  take  the  first  mouthful ; 
and  every  day,  now  she  knows  I  am  going  away,  she 
sighs  and  says,  "It  will  be  sorrow  to  Marie  when 
madame  goes."  So  I  add  her  to  Marianina  in  my  book 
of  remembrance ;  and,  if  it  came  to  being  sick,  I  should 
like  Marianina  to  look  at,  but  Marie  to  take  care  of 
me.  On  the  18th  of  August  (that  was  the  day  after 
the  Emperor's  birthday,  and  the  illumination,  etc.,  of 
which  I  wrote  you),  Marie  came  in  to  dinner  bringing 
a  bunch  of  roses  and  forget-me-nots,  and  laid  them  by 
my  plate,  looking  shyly  at  the  doctor,  who  explained 
for  her,  "Marie  thinks  to  give  you  a  pleasure  because 
it  is  your  name  day."  It  seems  that  in  Germany  the 
Catholics  think  more  of  the  day  which  is  called  by  the 
name  of  the  saint  whose  name  you  bear,  than  they 
do  of  your  birthday.  18th  of  August,  I  shall  never 
forget  now,  is  "  St.  Helen's"  day.   (G-lad  there  's  been  a 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      265 

St.  Helen  already,  because  one  of  a  name  is  enough. 
So  I  need  not — )  But  next  St.  Helen's  day  there  will 
be  no  Marie  to  bring  me  roses  and  forget-me-nots. 
How  the  forget-me-nots  hold  on  here  I  You  can't 
imagine  !  They  flower  and  flower,  and  grow  and  grow ; 
there  does  n't  seem  to  be  any  die  to  them.  I  have  had 
them  in  a  tumbler  for  ten  days  at  a  time,  growing 
taller  and  taller,  and  as  blue  at  the  last  as  at  the  be- 
ginning. 

Wednesday^  Sth.  —  There  is  nothing  new  to  tell  you 
to-day,  except  what  the  sun  did  this  morning.  At 
seven  o'clock  the  whole  valley  was  filled  dense  and 
thick  with  solid  white  clouds ;  it  fairly  seemed  to  roll 
in  between  the  slats  of  the  lattice-work  of  my  balcony. 
I  have  seen  nothing  like  it  before.  Newport's  densest 
is  not  so  white,  so  solid.  All  of  a  sudden  it  ht  up  as 
if  fires  were  kindled  behind  it.  The  sun  had  got  fairly 
up  over  the  mountain,  and  was  driving  all  before  him. 
In  a  few  moments  there  began  to  come  rifts  in  it,  through 
which  I  could  see  bits  of  fir-wood  and  pasture  on  the 
mountains,  gleaming  with  sunshine.  Then  the  tops  of 
the  mountains  came  out  clear,  and  the  solid  banks  of 
cloud  rolled  and  piled  and  struggled  below.  Some 
were  gray,  some  were  silver- white,  some  were  yellow, 
and  some  were  pale  pink.  No  sunset  ever  was  so  beau- 
tiful. For  an  hour  they  went  up  and  down  and  back 
and  forth  along  the  whole  mountain  wall,  to  east  and 
south  and  north,  as  far  as  I  could  see.  Gradually  the 
colors  died  out,  and  the  clouds  grew  fleecier  and  fleecier, 
till  only  little  floating  films  were  left  here  and  there,  and 
the  whole  valley  was  full  of  sunlight.  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
seen  a  world  made.  This  afternoon  I  have  been  in  the 
Platz,  buying  some  more  pictures  to  send  to  you,  and 
some  curious  bone  boxes  made  by  the  peasantry  here. 
I  hope  those  of  you  to  whom  I  liring  one  will  not  scorn 
it  for  being  scooped  out  of  a  cow's  born,  and  tattooed 
with  ink  in  queer  figures  and  mottoes.  "  Gastein  "  is 
written  on  all  of  them,  and  that  makes  them  sacred  to 
12 


266      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

me,  but  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  have  the  same  romance 
about  it.  On  the  way  down  I  had  an  interview  with 
the  man  who  is  to  take  me  to  Salzburg.  He  is  the  man 
who  drives  a  carriage  for  Dr.  Proll ;  perfectly  trust- 
worthy and  good,  and  has  an  uncommonly  keen  and 
honest  face;  but  really  he  looked  to  me  so  like  my  worst 
enemy  I  could  hardly  speak  peaceably  to  him. 

0,  here  is  the  time  for  me  to  tell  you  about  an 
einspanner,  for  that  is  the  thing  I  am  going  in, — 
only  I  am  going  in  an  uncommonly  fine  one,  which  can 
be  shut  up  in  case  of  rain,  and  is  painted  in  bright 
green,  in  imitation  of  straw-work,  on  the  sides.  But, 
after  all,  the  greatest  thing  about  a  einspanner  is  not  the 
einspanner  at  all,  but  the  way  the  horse  is  put  in.  The 
carriage  is  like  one  of  our  common  buggies,  only  very 
low,  and  instead  of  a  dasher  in  front  is  a  tiny  low  seat 
with  no  back,  no  front,  no  anything  to  it,  and  on  this 
the  driver  sits,  with  his  feet  dangling  over  among  the 
legs  of  the  horse,  or  tucked  up  on  the  pole.  I  was  just 
going  to  say  whiffletree,  which  would  have  been  a 
great  joke,  seeing  that  there  is  n't  anything  approach- 
ing to  one  about  the  whole  concern.  Now  for  the 
horse.  Out  of  the  centre  of  your  einspanner  comes  a 
pole,  just  as  if  it  were  intended  for  two  horses.  On  the 
left  side  of  this  pole  is  your  horse,  fastened  by  traces 
which  are  leather  only  half-way,  and  the  rest  of  the 
way  small  rope  twisted  and  tied,  —  and  frayed,  as  like 
as  not.  No  breeching,  —  nothing  under  heaven  to 
prevent  your  horse  from  stepping  out  of  the  traces  on 
the  off  side,  nothing  for  him  to  hold  back  by,  going 
down  hill,—  so  on  the  gentlest  slopes  they  lock  two  of 
the  wheels  and  put  on  a  brake,  and  you  grind  down 
safely  in  spite  of  the  cord  traces  flapping  round  the 
horse's  heels.  The  first  time  I  rode  in  one  I  was  posi- 
tively afraid,  which  was  a  new  sensation  for  me  on 
wheels  ;  but  now  I  am  hardened  to  them,  and  feel  as 
comfortable  as  if  I  were  in  the  most  approved  of  high- 
top  buggies  on  the  Bloomingdale   road.      Fancy  me 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      267 

dashing  along  for  a  day  and  a  half  all  alone  in  one  of 
them.  Really,  the  things  one  does  in  Europe  would 
seem  extraordinary  at  home.  If  I  started  to  take  a 
journey  of  seventy  miles  in  an  open  wagon,  it  would 
sound  preposterous  there,  but  here  I  think  nothing  of 
it.  I  am  even  thinking  of  going  a  little  longer  way  to 
see  some  new  places.  I  shall  put  my  letter  away  now, 
and  add  just  a  few  pages  after  I  reach  Munich.  I  think 
you  will  like  it  better  if  it  is  not  all  Gastein,  so  I  shall 
not  send  it  off,  as  I  had  intended,  before  starting.  I 
cannot  expect  you  all  to  be  Gastein-mad,  as  I  am,  and 
I  dare  say  I  shall  not  be  so  myself  after  a  few  days  in  a 
picture-gallery  again. 

Saturday  Eve.  —  Did  I  not  say  that  I  had  need  to 
be  careful  about  saying  that  I  would  do  anything  so 
against  nature  as  to  leave  Gastein  ?  Behold  me  re- 
turned again  to  sleep  in  my  attic,  after  having  been  as 
far  as  Hof-Gastein  on  my  way  to  Salzburg  I  0,  how 
I  am  laughing,  and  how  queer  it  all  is,  and  how  glad  I 
am  of  one  more  sunrise  on  these  mountains  I  But  this 
is  the  way  it  came  about.  Till  the  last  minute  I  had 
put  off  starting.  At  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  it  was 
to  be.  At  three  o'clock  the  carriage  was  here,  —  a  nice 
little  einspanner,  which  can  be  shut  up  tight  like  a  cab. 
Marie  cried  hard,  and  I  cried  a  little.  At  the  last  min- 
ute she  appears  with  a  big  basket  of  raw  tomatoes  and 
peaches,  and  a  bottle  of  strong  beef-tea,  which  I  taught 
her  to  make  when  I  had  my  sore-throat,  and  which  she 
considers,  I  believe,  to  be  a  standard  American  beverage. 
These  are  for  the  journey.  A  great  round  bouquet, 
gorgeous  with  verbenas,  china-asters,  pansies,  phlox, 
yellow  buttercups,  and  asparagus,  and  white  openwork 
tissue  paper,  comes  behind  in  Irma's  little  grimy  fingers ; 
another  little  bunch  of  roses,  fuchsia.^,  and  forget-me- 
nots  from  Marie's  own  treasures :  the  big  one  is  from 
the  flower-store,  and  I  very  much  fear  that  Marie  gave 
a  whole  gulden  for  it.  The  doctor  goes  before,  having 
promised  to  drive  as  far  as  Hof-Gastein  with  me.  What 


208     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

is  my  surprise  to  see  him  suddenly  fly  into  the  most 
tremendous  rage,  and  begin  to  talk  loud  and  gesticulate 
furiously  to  some  invisible  person  behind  the  fir-trees  I 
I  run  on  to  see  what  has  happened,  for  a  voluble  Ger- 
man in  a  rage  is  a  sight  to  make  you  quicken  your  steps 
any  day ;  sure  enough,  there,  instead  of  the  good,  faith- 
ful, steady-going  owner  of  the  einspanner,  who  had 
promised  to  take  me,  was  his  boy,  sixteen  years  old, 
who  is  the  most  deliciously  careless  little  grinning  ras- 
cal I  ever  drove  behind.  The  other  day,  in  the  space 
of  three  hours,  he  twice  ran  into  a  fence,  one  time  com- 
ing very  near  killing  his  horse,  and  the  other  time  still 
nearer  smashing  the  wagon ;  but  he  only  laughed,  and 
jumped  down  and  tugged  away  at  the  back  wheels  till 
he  got  us  into  the  road  again.  This  was  a  charming 
escort  on  a  seventy-mile  journey.  However,  I  said, 
"Allah  il  Allah  _I  go!"  So  off  we  started.  The 
carriage  was  partly  shut  up,  for  already  a  drizzling  rain 
was  setting  in.  Just  before  we  reached  Hof-Gastein  it 
grew  colder,  and  the  rain  began  to  drive  in  at  each  side. 
Where  were  the  window  pieces?  0,  he  had  not 
brought  them  I  Then  you  should  have  seen  the  holy 
fury  of  Dr.  Proll!  I  am  rather  glad  to  have  discov- 
ered that  he  can  grow  red  in  the  face,  and  abuse  peo- 
ple, like  other  mortals,  because  he  always  seemed  a 
little  too  much  like  a  saint  before.  There  I  was;  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  come  back,  for  to  go  on  in  an  Alpine 
storm  with  the  carriage  open  would  be  madness ;  and 
the  most  provoking  thing  was,  that  it  had  only  been 
to  save  a  few  pounds'  additional  weight  for  his  horse, 
that  the  man  had  left  the  side  pieces  at  home.  O,  how 
disconsolate  and  black  the  boy  looked  when  he  was 
ordered  to  turn  round  and  come  back  to  Gastein  I 
Every  few  minutes  the  exasperated  doctor  would  break 
out  with  some  hotter  and  heavier  sentence,  which 
sounded  like  something  more  fearful  than  the  preceding 
one.  Eeally,  angry  German  is  the  most  horrible  sound 
I  ever  heard  in  my  life.     Incantation,  maledictions,  su- 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     269 

pernatural  thunderings,  and  sputterings  are  in  it.  When 
I  arrived  at  the  house,  Marie,  Irma,  Rupert,  all  came  run- 
ning with  astonishment  so  great  that  their  faces  looked 
all  eyes.  Irma  takes  out  the  bouquets  and  disappears 
with  them ;  Marie  claps  her  hands,  and  says  "  Good, 
good,  it  is  good,  —  that  now  I  will  not  go  at  all  "  ;  Hu- 
bert lugs  up  my  hat-box ;  the  boy  with  the  green  ein- 
spanner  drives  oif  more  crestfallen  than  I  thought  he 
could  look;  and  here  am  I  at  my  old  writing-table, 
with  a  fire  in  my  stove,  and  candles  lit  at  six  o'clock 
of  a  September  evening.  I  belieye  there  must  be 
some  special  providence  in  the  thing,  for  the  storm  has 
increased  so  fearfully  it  is  almost  a  gale  of  rain.  I 
should  have  been  drenched  even  in  a  closed  carriage 
before  seven  o'clock.  Now  what  is  to  be  done  next  I 
do  not  know.  I  fear  the  doctor  and  the  einspanner  man 
are  now  so  angry  that  I  have  no  chance  in  that  green 
chariot  again.  I  await  the  news  with  which  the  doctor 
will  return  to-night  from  the  Platz.  In  the  mean  time 
you  have  two  more  pages  of  G-astein,  after  all.  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  to-morrow  there  were  to  arrive  a 
letter  or  a  telegram  from  somebody,  I  can't  imagine 
who  or  what,  but  somebody  or  something  which  should 
keep  me  here  another  month.  It  would  be  no  odder 
than  my  having  stayed  here  this  month  and  having" come 

back  to-night Here  comes  the  doctor,  his  face  all 

aglow  with  delight.  "  Such  a  miracle!  "  he  says;  "  do  I 
not  tell  you  all  is  miracle  ?  A  storm  is  raging  out  at 
the  end  of  the  valley  such  as  has  not  been  seen  for 
weeks  and  weeks."  I  should  have  driven  directly  into 
it  and  have  been  at  six  o'clock  in  the  Klamme,  the  nar- 
row pass  of  which  I  wrote  you ;  no,  I  did  not  either. 
Well,  it  is  the  wildest  sort  of  a  pass ;  just  room  for  the 
road  and  a  river,  and  tremendous  precipices  above,  on 
one  hand,  and  below,  on  the  other.  In  many  places 
the  road  is  on  a  plank  shelf,  held  on,  I  don't  know  how, 
to  the  side  of  the  rocky  chfTs.  It  makes  me  shudder 
to  think  of  having  been  overtaken  there  by  this  storm, 


270     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

with  the  grinning  boy  for  driver.  But  more  good  luck 
yet.  A  carriage  is  here  from  Salzburg,  anxious  to  get 
a  passenger  to  return,  a  good  carriage  and  two  horses, 
for  which  I  pay  but  one  gulden  more  than  for  the  ein- 
spanner,  and  the  driver  is  a  trusty  old  man  who  has 
been  on  the  road  for  twenty  years,  and  is  well  known 
to  everybody.  At  half  past  six  to-morrow  morning  I 
start  once  more,  and  this  time  I  think  it  will  really  be 
a  success. 

Munich,  Wednesday,  15th.  —  Yes,  it  was  a  success,  if 
anything  can  be  called  so  which  takes  one  away  from 
the  Gastein  valley.  Two  such  days  as  I  had,  all  alone  in 
my  big  carriage,  with  the  fatherly  old  driver,  who  will 
puzzle  his  head  to  his  dying  day,  I  believe,  to  make  out 
why  it  was  that  I  went  by  myself,  and  what  under 
heaven  made  me  look  so  delighted  all  the  way.  It  was 
such  sunshine  and  such  beauty,  I  even  forgot  that  each 
mile  took  me  farther  from  Gastein.  Zell-am-See,  Saal- 
felden,  Reichenhall,  Salzburg  ;  but  I  was  two  days  doing 
it,  and  I  said  everything  that  was  needful  at  the  odd 
little  German  inns;  and  I  climbed  down  into  the  Seis- 
senberger  Klamme,  which  is  the  one  spot  on  earth  where 
chaos  reigns ;  and  my  flowers  never  wilted  by  a  shade 
during  the  whole  two  days,  the  wonderful  Gastehi 
blossoms  I  And  when  I  walked  into  the  grand  Hotel 
Europa  at  Salzburg,  I  felt  like  one  in  a  dream, —  wait- 
ers with  white  cravats  again,  mushroom-sauce,  and 
clothes  to  be  seen  on  all  sides !  Heigh-ho !  I  slipped 
my  shoulder  under  the  strap  once  more,  and  picked  up 
the  burden  of  belonging  to  the  world's  people.  Gas- 
tein,  Gastein,  farewell !  Then  came  telegraphings  be- 
tween Salzburg  and  Innspruck,  and,  of  course,  misun- 
derstandings ;  and  did  n't  I  come  on  here  to  Munich 
stark  staring  alone,  instead  of  having  met  my  friends  at 
Rosenheim,  as  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  properly 
understood  the  arrangement !  At  the  station  here,  a 
providential  man  who  spoke  English !  Always  I  find 
one  when  I  am  in  straits,  and  this  time  the  straits  were 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


271 


dreadful.  I  shudder  to  think  what  I  should  have  done 
without  that  man.  In  the  country  I  don't  mind ;  with  my 
dictionary  I  get  on ;  but  at  a  railroad  station  in  a  city  1 
I  should  have  turned  and  run  away,  I  think,  and  never 
been  heard  of  more.    Two  hours  later,  by  the  next  train, 

aiTived  poor  P and  N ,  equally  bewildered  and 

unhappy  at  not  finding  me.  Now  we  are  settled,  and 
have  seen  the  Prince  of  Prussia.  We  came  out  of  the 
hotel  ahead  of  him  too.  Four  black  horses,  riders  in 
blue  and  silver  on  the  two  near  horses,  riders  in  blue 
and  silver  high  up  behind  coach  in  blue  and  silver, 
rider  in  blue  and  silver  on  another  black  horse  gallop- 
ing before!  The  prince  wore  a  stove-pipe  hat,  and 
looked,  as  every  man  looks  who  wears  a  stove-pipe 
hat,  like  any  other  man's  barber ;  but  the  horses  and 
the  blue  and  silver  were  gay  to  see. 

Munich  looks  to  me,  after  three  hours'  driving  in  it, 
about  as  interesting  as  a  brick-kiln,  and  more  like  it  than 
anything  else.  Bricks  unbaked  and  all  stamped  same 
pattern.  But  all  that  this  century  can  do  in  the  way 
of  pictures  is  to  be  seen  here  now,  so  I  mean  to  look. 
Carpaccio's  St.  Ursula  is  worth  more  than  the  whole 
of  it,  I  suspect 

Good  by,  and  good  by,  and  good  by. 


272 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


MtNiCH,  Monday,  October  4, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE:  Behold  me,  once  more  alone, 
left  to  myself  for  four  days  in  this  German  city. 
The  girls  have  just  started  on  their  journey  south- 
ward,—  Innspruck,  Botzen,  Verona,  Florence,  Rome. 
It  sounds  better  than  my  programme,  does  it  not? 
mine  being  Nuremberg,  Cologne,  Rotterdam,  London. 
But,  ah,  how  joyful  I  am,  to  be,  at  last,  moving  to  the 
North !  I  had  planned  to  set  out  at  the  same  time  they 
did,  i.  e.  nine  o'clock  this  morning ;  but  at  the  last  mo- 
ment the  dear  Fraulein  Hahlreiner,  in  whose  house 
we  lodged  for  two  weeks,  said  if  I  would  wait  until 
Friday  she  would  go  with  me.  This  I  was  but  too 
glad  to  do,  for  of  the  only  two  women  I  could  find  who 
spoke  English  and  were  willing  to  take  the  journey, 
I  could  not  tell  which  I  disliked  the  more.  One  wished 
to  go  as  my  bosom-friend,  and  the  other  was  a  simple- 
ton. But  the  Fraulein!  You  '11  have  enough  of  her, 
though,  before  you  are  done,  for  my  letter  will  be  full 
of  her. 

I  cannot  tell  you  very  much  about  Munich,  I  think. 
See  New  York  Independent  for  my  opinions  as  to  the 
outside  look  of  it,  and  did  I  not  tell  you  in  the  la^t 
letter  also  ?  I  forget.  But  all  I  shall  brmg  away  from 
Munich  will  be  pictures.  Think  of  my  having  seen,  in 
this  short  time,  nearly  four  thousand !  Of  course  I  do 
not  remember  distinctly  one  hundred  of  them,  but  I 
have  learned  the  different  touch  of  the  different  paint- 
ers, and  know  whom  I  love. 

More  and  more  I  wonder  what  art  would  have  done 
if  Christ  and  his  mother  Mary  had  not  lived  on  the 
eftrth.     More  than  one  gospel  we  owe  them.     Nobody 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


273 


will  ever  paint  anything  so  sweet  as  Bellini's  and  Van 
Dyck's  Madonnas,  or  so  pure  and  strong  as  Fra  Angelico 
believed  the  old  saints  to  be.  The  only  Christs  I  have 
seen  at  which  I  can  look  are  Van  Dyck's.  One  was  a 
head  in  an  old  palace  at  Genoa.  I  wrote  you  about  it. 
It  had  a  look  of  John  Weiss  made  martyr.  The  other 
is  a  crucifixion  here  in  the  Pinakothek.  Van  Dyck 
dares  to  make  his  Christ  dark  and  strong  and  stern 
with  suffering.  Everybody  else  paints  him  a  gentle, 
inefficient-looking  creature,  with  long  hair  parted  in  the 
middle.  It  is  something  I  cannot  understand.  The 
type  began  in  the  old  seventh-century  frescos,  and 
from  that  day  to  this,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  Van  Dyck  is 
the  only  man  who  has  departed  from  it. 

Now,  for  these  four  days,  I  shall  do  only  two  things, 
—  write,  and  go  to  the  Pinakothek.  I  have  done  the 
Exposition  (and  you  can  all  read  it  iu  the  Independent), 
and  now  I  am  going  to  spend  three  whole  forenoons 
with  Albert  Durer,  Van  Dyck,  Rembrandt,  Gerard 
Dow,  Murillo,  Teniers,  Van  der  Werff,  Cuyp,  Paul 
Potter,  Titian,  Veronese,  and  Raphael,  Holbein,  Meister 
WiUiam  of  Cologne,  and  half  a  dozen  more  whose 
names  I  won't  write.  Don't  think  I  look  at  every- 
body's pictures  out  of  the  four  thousand,  or  at  first  one 
and  then  another  man's,  as  most  people  do.  I  look  at 
such  people  (and  they  are  everybody)  with  perfect 
astonishment.  I  can't  do  it,  any  more  than  I  could 
read  fifty  books  at  a  time,  a  few  lines  from  one  and 
then  from  another,  and  so  on.  That  would  be  pre- 
cisely the  same  thing.  I  look  at  Murillo,  for  instance, 
for  a  day,  and  at  nobody  else.  There  are  six  lovely 
pictures  of  his  in  the  Pinakothek.  Such  delicious 
beggars,  and  such  a  good  time  as  they  have !  There 
is  one  boy  with  a  great  mouthful  of  melon  in  one 
cheek  that  I  shall  never  forget;  and  another  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  eating  grapes.  I  had  seen  the 
engravings  before ;  but  they  are  nothmg,  the  coloring 
is  all 

12*  R 


274 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


But  I  write  to  you  too  much  about  pictures.  I  re- 
member I  used  to  think  it  the  most  stupid  reading  in 
the  world,  other  people's  notions  of  pictures  which  I 
had  not  seen. 

Thursday  Morning,  October  14,  1869.  —  On  the  Rhine, 
four  hours  above  Rotterdam ;  rolled  up  in  blankets  to 
keep  warm. 

Ah,  but  it 's  a  great  thing  to  have  come  down  the 
Rhine!  0,  how  shall  I  ever  tell  you  the  worry  and 
the  strain  of  it !  With  any  less  of  a  genius  than  my 
Fraulein  I  should  never  have  got  through.  I  shudder 
when  I  think  of  the  time  I  should  have  had  with  the 
simpleton  or  the  bosom  companion.  But  I  will  begin 
back.  Last  Friday  morning  we  left  Munich  for  Nurem- 
berg. I  had  read  in  Murray  that  the  Wiirtemberger 
Hof  was  "  good,  clean,  and  moderate/'  so  I  telegraphed 
from  the  station  at  Munich  to  the  Wiirtemberger  Hof 
for  two  rooms.  Arrived  in  Nuremberg  at  9  p.  m., 
confidently  we  said  to  men  in  crowd,  "We  go  to  the 
Wurtemberger  Hof."  Crowd  lifted  up  its  voice,  and 
said  there  was  no  Wurtemberger  Hof  I,  being  by 
nature  obstinate,  and  having  Murray  in  my  hand,  said 
there  was.  Poor  Fraulein,  in  despair,  dumped  me  in 
the  waiting-room  and  went  off  to  see.  She  came  back 
with,  "  My  dear  lady,  she  do  not  exist  these  now  four 
years,  the  Hotel  Wurtemberger."  So  we  followed  a 
small  boy,  with  a  glass  of  beer  in  his  hand,  down  the 
square  to  the  Nuremberger  Hof,  to  which  we  found 
our  telegram  had  been  sent,  and  which  is  the  very 
worst  hotel  I  have  seen  in  Europe.  Next  day  it  was 
a  pouring  rain.  Nevertheless,  I  saw  Nuremberg.  A 
carriage,  which  might  have  been  at  Albert  Diirer's 
funeral,  I  think,  and  two  skeleton  horses,  and  the  Frau- 
lein and  I  lumbering  in  and  out  under  umbrellas,  the 
Nuremberghers  saw  in  their  streets  for  five  hours  that 
day. 

Old  frescos  by  Durer,  old  dungeons  worse  than  any 
in  Venice,  most  wonderful  old  churches.  (I  send  you 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


275 


pictures  of  ajl,)  such  instruments  of  torture  as  I  have 
read  of,  but  never  fairly  beheved  in,  Albert  Diirer's 
grave  and  statue,  Hans  Sach's  grave,  the  castle, 
street  after  street  of  odd  old  houses,  with  window^s  to 
make  your  mouth  water,  fountains  by  Peter  Viseher, 
shops  of  suoh  worsted  miracles  and  silver  carvings 
and  amber  necklaces,  —  0, 1  am  wretched  now  to  think 
that  I  could  not  spend  $  100  in  five  minutes  in  those 
shops ! 

Never  any  of  you  try  to  see  Nuremberg  in  a  day. 
It  is  a  place  to  ramble  in  for  a  week,  to  study  corners 
and  doorsteps  and  odd  shadowy  places,  and  in  St. 
Lawrence's  and  St.  Sebald's  churches  to  spend  morn- 
ings and  evenings.  I  must  go  back  some  day  with 
some  of  you.  Who  speaks  ?  That  Iron  Virgin  I  must 
tell  you  about.  It  is  gray  stone,  and  the  picture  is  ex- 
actly like  it.  It  is  in  the  last  chamber  of  a  series  of 
dungeons  under  the  wall  of  the  city.  Those  two  doors 
swing  open.  Inside  they  are  set  with  horrible  iron 
spikes  in  the  head  and  the  chest.  When  the  person 
was  placed  inside,  the  doors  were  pressed  slowly  to- 
gether by  a  great  iron  bar  which  comes  from  the  wall 
opposite.  It  could  not  take  many  seconds  to  kill  one 
so ;  that  was  the  only  consolation  to  think  of;  it  was 
not  really  so  cruel  as  some  of  the  simpler-looking 
methods.  Under  the  feet  is  a  trap-door  through  which 
the  body  fell,  eight  feet  down  into  the  canal,  and  so  out 
into  the  river.  I  looked  down ;  but  poor  Fraulein  said, 
"Mein  Gott,  mein  Gott!"  and  turned  so  pale  that  I 
was  afraid  the  great  hearty  creature  would  faint  away, 
and  how  should  we  ever  have  got  her  out  of  those 
winding  stone  caverns !  Everywhere  she  said  such 
striking  things  that  I  was  lost  in  astonishment  at  her. 
But  I  can't  tell  them  to  you  here,  because  if  I  do  you 
will  none  of  you  care  anything  about  my  story  which 
I  am  going  to  make  of  her  as  soon  as  I  get  to  London. 
Blessed  old  darling  !  I  only  wish  I  could  take  her  for 
the  rest  of  my  life,  wherever  I  go. 


2<;6      ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

From  Nuremberg  to  Mayence,  nothing  worth  telling. 
From  Mayence  to  Cologne,  first  day  on  the  Rhine ! 
Ha,  my  people,  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  send  you  a 
letter  full  of  ecstasies  about  the  Rhine  ?  Not  I.  When 
the  boat  first  pushed  off  from  Mayence  I  said  to  myself 
—  No !  I  won't  tell  you  what  I  said  ;  but  for  several 
hours  I  was  the  most  damped  creature  you  ever  saw. 
The  Fraulein  had  never  before  seen  it,  never  before 
been  in  a  large  boat.  "  0,  my  lady,  find  you  not  this 
boat  very  large  ?  "  And  when  I  told  her  that  I  was 
only  astonished  to  find  it  so  small,  she  was  dumb  with 
incredulous  surprise.  There  were  three  American  wo- 
men on  the  deck,  who  were  "  doing  "  the  Rhine  so  zeal- 
ously, reading  aloud  from  Murray  at  every  ruin  and 
castle,  that  somehow  I  took  a  sudden  perverse  disgust 
to  the  whole  thing,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  whole 
year  I  played  the  hlase.  traveller.  The  truth  is,  that 
one  should  never  see  the  Coliseum  and  the  tomb  of 
Cecilia  Metella  before  seeing  the  ruins  on  the  Rhine ; 
after  them,  nothing  else  this  side  of  Palestine  can  look 
like  more  than  a  middle-aged  house  "  out  of  repair." 
And,  above  all,  one  should  not  come  from  Tyrol  down 
the  Rhine  ;  remember  that,  all  of  you  who  mean  Rhine 
and  Tyrol  some  day.  Go  to  the  Tyrol,  wp  the  Rhine, 
and  then  perhaps  you  will  get  a  Rhine !  I  honestly 
own  I  have  not  had  any.     It  won't    "  take. "     Well, 

we  went  on  shore  at  Cologne (0,  I  must  not 

forget  to  tell  you  that  they  have  built  up  a  nice  new 
old  arch  where  Roland's  real  old,  old  arch  fell  down  last 
year.  It  looks  quite  well  against  the  sky,  after  you 
get  far  enough  off,  and  the  island  below  is  really  just 
as  lovely  as  the  ninety-nine  thousand  tourists  have 
said.) 

At  Cologne  we  were  splendidly  lodged  at  the  Hotel 
du  Nord,  in  which  I  had  to  sleep  Avith  my  head  to  the 
south ;  bright  and  early  we  set  out  to  find  the  man 
who  sold  tickets  "  through"  to  London.  If  there  is  any 
creature  in  the  world  that  rouses  my  ire,  it  is  the  porter 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      277 

In  a  first-class  European  city  hotel.  Their  assistance  is 
odious  to  me  even  in  my  greatest  extremity,  and  their 
politeness  so  flavored  vv^ith  impudence  that  I  boil.  I 
have  n't  yet  fathomed  the  mystery.  I  do  not  under- 
stand the  species.  Such  a  one  I  met  in  the  doorway. 
Would  he  give  me  the  address  of  the  agent  for  the 
steamboat  line  for  Rotterdam  and  London  ? 

"  Madame  wished  to  go  to  London  ?  "  with  a  bow 
and  a  smile. 

"  Can  you  give  me  the  address  ?  " 

"  The  agent  will  be  here  at  eleven  o'clock  ;  he  comes 
every  day  to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  passengers 
for  our  house." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  wait,  I  wish  to  see  him  at  once  ; 
will  you  give  me  the  address  ?  " 

"I  can  give  you  all  the  information,  madame,  my- 
self, and  save  you  the  trouble  of  going  to  the  oflice." 

"  Will  you,  or  will  you  not,  give  me  the  address  ?  "  said 
I,  —  thunderedl,  would  be  more  true,  for  O,  how  mad 
I  was!  Then  I  got  it,  and  the  porter  went  back  into 
his  office,  muttering  to  himself,  I  suppose,  that  Ameri- 
canerins  were  all  bears. 

Poor  Fraulein  stood  by,  silent  and  aghast.  "  Find 
you  that  man  respectful,  my  lady  ?  "  she  said,  after  we 
were  in  the  street. 

"  0  no,"  said  I,  "  quite  impertinent." 

"  I  thought  so,"  she  said.  ''  0,  but  I  hate  these  peo- 
ple in  this  north  country !  " 

Well,  we  drove  to  No.  12  Frederick  Wilham  Strasse  ; 
grand  office ;  "  London,  Calais,  and  Dover  R.  R."  over 
the  door.  "  O  dear !  "  thinks  I.  "  However,  I  '11  ask." 
Grand  cockney  in  white  A'^st.  "  I  wish  to  make  some 
inquiries  about  the  route  to  London  via  Rotterdam,  and 
I  was  sent  here ;  is  this  the  place  ?  " 

"  You  wish  to  go  to  London  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  Yankees  are  not  alone  in 
asking  needless  questions."  However,  T  thought  best 
to  conciliate  this  bull,  and  I  said  I  did,  lor  reasons  best 


278     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

known  to  myself,  wish  to  do  that  very  thing.  "  But  I 
certainly  would  not  go  via  Rotterdam."  Thdr  line,  via 
Ostend,  was  so  much  shorter,  quicker,  etc.,  —  a  ten 
minutes'  harangue  from  a  prospectus.  At  last  I  got  out 
of  him  the  address  of  the  office  of  the  Netherlands 
Steamship  Company,  and  down  to  the  wharves  we 
drove.  A  little  box  of  a  building,  and  a  mild,  surprised 
young  man,  and  "  0  yes,  they  did  sell  through  tick- 
ets to  London,  but  no  direct  hne  through  except  on 
Sunday  morning.  Yes,  I  could  wait  at  Rotterdam,  or 
take  a  run  up  to  Sweden  and  Norway,  or  somewhere, 
and  in  eight  days  I  could  be  in  London,"  I  was  in 
despair;  at  last  I  said,  "But  there  is  surely  another 
company  ?  "  "0  yes ;  the  Cologne  and  Dusseldorf." 
"  Ah,  where  was  that  ?  "  He  told  me,  bowed  blandly, 
and  resumed  his  writing  as  if  such  little  conversations 
were  frequent  at  his  desk. 

More  wharves,  another  little  box  building,  another 
clerk  selling  tickets  to  people  that  looked  like  emigrants. 
This  seemed  more  promising.  Could  I  get  a  through 
ticket  to  London  ?  "0  yes ;  but  I  would  have  to  wait 
in  Rotterdam  over  one  day."  Just  what  I  wished. 
Then  I  was  passed  over  to  another  man,  an  old  man 
with  big  benevolence  in  the  forehead,  and  he  explained 
to  me  that  I  could  go  at  3  p.  m.  that  day  to  Dussel- 
dorf, at  8  A.  M.  next  day  to  Arnheim,  and  there,  wheth- 
er there  would  or  could  not  be  a  boat  he  could  not  say, 
but,  at  any  rate.  I  could  take  cars  to  Rotterdam  from 
there,  and  the  whole  ticket  was  so  cheap  I  did  not  mind 
that  at  all,  and  I  felt  all  the  safer  because  he  did  not 
guarantee  where  he  was  not  sure.  He  believed  there 
would  be  a  boat  at  Arnheim.  Could  he  check  my  big 
trunk  for  London  ?  Yes.  So  I  bought  my  ticket ;  only 
40  francs  for  me  to  London,  and  Fraulein  to  Arnheim  I 
Remember  that,  you  who  mean  to  come,  you  can  get 
from  London  to  Cologne  for  $  7  less  this  way. 

Then  I  set  out  to  see  Cologne,  took  a  look  at  the 
church  where  St.  Ursula's  Virgins'  bones  are  laid,  (this 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


279 


I  did  for  love  of  dear  old  Carpaccio's  pictures  in  Venice. 
You  rememlser  ?)  then  St.  Gereon,  which  is  a  grand 
old  church ;  here  were  skulls  oi'  martyrs  set  over  door- 
ways, behind  railings,  skulls  set  back  side  to  the  front, 
or  else  the  eyes  and  nose  and  mouth  were  all  wrapped 
in  red  velvet  or  damask,  I  could  not  make  out  which  it 
was:  then  the  house  where  Rubens  lived  and  Marie 
de  Medicis  died ;  and  then  tlie  Gurzenich,  which  is  a 
handsome  stone  building,  and  has  two  nice  old  fellows 
in  stone  set  under  pent-house  roofs  in  the  front.  And 
then  the  Apostles'  Churcli,  and  the  house  near  by,  where 
are  two  stone  heawis  of  horses  looking  out  of  the  third- 
story  window,  to  commemorate  the  coming  to  life  of 
Mrs.  Somebody  who  was  buried  in  that  church,  and, 
not  being  dead,  returned  quickly  to  her  home  and 
walked  in  on  Mr.  Somebody  before  he  had  decided 
what  to  do  about  it,  and  says  he,  "  You  are  not  my  wife 
any  more  than  my  horses  can  be  up  in  the  third-story 
room  " ;  and  pop  !  out  come  the  horses'  heads,  at  that 
very  minute,  out  of  the  third-story  window  ;  and  the 
stone  heads  aie  there  still  to  prove  the  story,  which  of 
course  they  do. 

Then  a  dinner  at  a  cafe ;  poor  Fraulein  turning  white 
with  horror  at  the  prices  and  the  quality. 

"  0  my  lady,  find  you  this  chicken  good  ?  She  are 
old,  old  chicken ;  never  had  I  courage  to  give  old  chickea 
in  my  house.  Now  I  give.  O,  I  win  much  money  from 
this  journey !  " 

After  dinner,  the  cathedral,  two  hours  free  for  it 
Those  of  you  who  have  seen  it  will  not  wonder  that  I 
have  nothing  to  say  about  it;  those  of  you  who  have  not 
must  forgive  me.  I  cannot  say  one  word.  It  is  more 
wonderful  than  any  words.  If  I  said  that  by  miracle 
a  stone  mountain  iiad  flowered  in  spire  and  arch  and 
statue  till  there  was  not  room  for  one  single  flower 
more  to  be  set,  that  is  my  nearest  word  to  what  I  saw, 
and  so  near  that  I  think  that  somebody  else  must  have 
said  it  before  me. 


28o     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

At  half  past  two  behold  Fraulein  and  me  down  on 
wharf  again,  (0,  I  forgot  to  say  that  there  are  now 
17,000  diflferent  smells  in  Cologne,  besides  the  Farina!) 
and  at  the  little  box-office  door.  Women  and  babiea 
and  bundles  round  the  doorstep.  I  felt  like  Castle  Gar- 
den. No  old  man  of  the  morning,  no  clerk,  no  boat. 
One  mortal  hour  passed  ;  old  man  arrived ;  in  half  an 
hour  more  the  boat.  Things  and  people  and  we  driz- 
zled in  as  if  all  day  were  before  us.  I  took  a  last,  long, 
lingering  look  at  my  trunk,  and  tried  to  believe  I  should 
ever  see  it  again.  It  must  go  by  another  boat  to  be 
sure  of  getting  past  Arnheim.  Now  J  am  sorry  I  did 
not  bring  it  with  me,  but  I  was  over-persuaded  by  the 
old  man  with  benevolence  big. 

On  deck  I  see  an  unmistakable  English  bonnet.  The 
bonnet  sprang  up  and  said,  "  Oh  1  oh  I  do  you  know 
when  this  boat  will  start  ?  " 

"  Immediately,  I  think." 

"  But  there  has  been  an  accident  to  it" 

"  Oh !  oh !  "  said  I,  and  my  heart  sank. 

"  Yes ;  and  each  man  says  a  different  thing,  and  we 
have  had  no  dinner,  and  I  have  just  left  a  most  beloved 
daughter  at  school  at  Neuwied,  and  I  have  cried  the 
whole  night,  and  I  look  like  a  fright,"  said  she,  lifting 
up  her  frightful  black  lace  veil  spotted  with  white,  and 
showing  a  very  pleasant,  clean  face. 

"  0,  bless  you ! "  thought  I,  "  you  are  a  godsend 
anyhow,  if  you  are  going  to  talk  in  this  way." 

Then  came  along  the  husband,  a  good-looking,  brown- 
eyed,  brown-whiskered  man,  who  talked  through  his 
nose  quite  as  much  as  any  American  I  ever  saw,  and 
we  fell  to  immediately  and  wondered  what  would  turn 
up,  and  if  we  should  ever  get  to  Dusseldorf.  In  comes 
old  man  with  big  benevolence,  and  says,  "  We  can  tell 
in  half  an  hour  whether  we  can  go  on  to-night  or  not  I " 
Half-hour  was  one  hour.  0,  how  much  that  woman 
told  me  in  that  time ! 

Then  we  started  for  Dusseldorf     1,  being  half  dead 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  FELLER.     28/ 

•with  a  cold  which  I  had  taken  sleeping  in  the  damp 
layers  of  sodden  flax  wliich  they  call  sheets  in  Cologne, 
had  to  curl  myself  up  in  a  corner  of  the  cabin  and  makd 
the  best  of  solitude  and  darkness.  Every  few  minutes 
came  down  the  Fraulein  to  tell  me  what  the  English 
lady  had  said,  and  to  see  how  I  got  on.  At  9  p.  m. 
Dusseldorf!  English  advocate  said  Hotel  Europe  was 
the  one  they  had  selected  to  go  to.  Out  we  filed ;  two 
men  ahead  carrying  English  advocate's  valise  and  my 
hat-box  ;  English  advocate's  wife  and  I  hugging  on  to 
each  other  like  old  friends ;  Fraulein  and  English  advo- 
cate roaming  about  loose  on  the  outer  edges  of  the  pro- 
cession ;  dark  as  midnight.  Nobody  seemed  to  know 
exactly  what  we  were  to  do ;  each  thought  somebody 
else  was  taking  responsibility. 

"  Halt !  "  Plump  down  go  valises  and  hat-box  in 
middle  of  street ;  custom-house  officer  with  lantern ! 

"  Have  you  meat  or  sausage  ?  "  said  he,  twinkling  his 
eyes  with  fun  to  see  how  little  we  looked  like  sausage- 
smugglers,  and  how  scared  we  were  at  the  idea  of  hav- 
ing trunks  opened  in  the  dead  of  night  in  the  streets 
of  Dusseldorf. 

Then  he  let  us  go  on,  having  taken  our  word  for  all, 
and  not  opened  a  single  bag  or  box.  "  0  Fraulein  !  " 
said  I,  "  did  you  tell  that  man  you  had  no  sausages  in 
your  basket  ?  "  I  knowing  that  she  had  at  least  six. 

"  0  no,  my  lady,  I  did  not  make  lie,  I  make  diplo- 
matique. He  say,  '  Have  you  meat  or  sausage  ? '  and  I 
say,  '  No,  I  have  no  meat ! '  " 

Then  we  brouglit  up  at  the  Cologne  Hof.  Quite 
cheery  looked  the  hall,  well  lit  up.  Down  went  vahse 
and  hat-box,  and  we  stepped  in,  glad  of  a  roof.  "  All 
full !  all  full !  "  cried  the  landlord,  running  out  from 
the  dining-room,  "  not  a  single  room  !  " 

Then  rose  a  great  babble  of  the  porters  and  waiters, 
and  each  said  the  name  of  a  different  house  to  which 
we  would  better  go.  English  advocate,  who  could  n't 
speak  a  word  of  German,  —  by  the  way,  I  don't  know 


282     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

how  he  had  been  getting  on,  —  said  we  would  go  to 
the  nearest,  good  or  bad.  Up  and  down,  in  and  out, 
round  and  about,  we  went,  full  half  a  mile,  and  reached 
the  Breidenbacher  Hof,  got  in,  and  got  rooms  and  got 
to  bed. 

"  Call  us  at  six ;  we  go  on  board  the  boat  for  Arn- 
heim  at  eight,"  said  1. 

"  There  is  no  boat  in  the  morning,"  said  the  porter. 

"  There  must  be,"  said  I,  remembering  the  forehead 
of  the  old  man  in  Cologne. 

Porter  was  obstinate,  knew  there  was  no  boat;  the 
boat  for  Arnheim  went  at  11  p.  m.  every  night.  Then 
I  ordered  a  commissioner  to  go  to  the  office  and  see. 
In  an  hour  he  came  back  with  the  same  story ;  still  I 
did  not  believe,  but  I  went  to  bed  quite  unhappy  at 
the  prospect  of  a  long  car  ride  the  next  day,  and  the 
thought  of  having  been  swindled  by  the  big  benevo- 
lence. At  six  and  a  half  next  morning  I  rang  for 
water.  Waiter  says,  with  the  air  of  one  having  an 
unimportant  second  thought,  "  0,  there  is  a  boat 
down  this  morning  at  half  past  eight,  the  porter  says." 
Thinking  the  impressions  of  the  employees  of  the 
Breidenbacher  Hof  quite  too  vacillating  to  be  de- 
pended on,  I  pack  poor  Fraulein  off  in  tihe  cold  twi- 
light, down  to  the  wharf,  to  ask.  She  comes  back, 
pops  her  head  in  at  my  door,  "  Yes,  my  lady,  he  go," 
and  is  off  again  on  some  other  mysterious  errand  of 
her  own. 

At  breakfast  comes  the  bill,  presented  by  a  pale,  mel- 
ancholy young  man  who  spoke  excellent  English,  (and 
whom  I  suspect  of  being  a  student  at  Dusseldorf,) 
with  item  of  ten  silver  groschen  for  the  services  of  com- 
missioner. Would  n't  you  have  liked  to  have  heard 
the  English  with  which  I  declined  paying  for  the 
services  of  the  commissioner  who  had  informed  me 
that  there  was  no  boat  that  morning?  Pale  young 
man  smiled  a  sickly  smile,  but  struck  off  the  item.  I 
left  a  word  of  farewell  and  thanks  to  the  voluble  Mrs. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      283 

A-dvocate,  and  gave  her  my  London  address,  and  once 
more  poor  Fraulein  (who  began  to  look  a  httle  fagged 
by  her  new  worries)  and  I  took  up  our  hne  of  march. 
This  boat  proved  not  to  be  a  boat  for  Arnheim  at  all, 
but  direct  for  Rotterdam  by  way  of  Nimwegen.  Much 
I  fear  that  Big  Benevolence  did  not  know  it  would  be 
at  Dusseldorf  on  Wednesday  morning.  However,  the 
tickets  were  as  good  on  it  as  on  any  other,  and  we 
need  not  go  off  it  at  all,  and  we  shall  be  in  Rotterdam 
at  half  past  one.  So  all  is  well  that  ends  well.  If  I 
had  my  big  trunk  I  should  be  content.  But  if  you 
could  once  imagine  how  cold  it  is.  A  drizzling  rain 
and  a  cold  wind  and  no  fire.  Last  night  the  Fraulein 
and  I  slept  on  mattresses  in  the  captain's  cabin.  We, 
being  the  only  women  on  board,  had  it  to  ourselves. 
I  wore  all  my  clothes  which  are  not  hlack^  my  woollen 
wrapper,  a  heavy  cloth  sack  trimmed  with  astrachan, 
and  I  had  three  blankets  above  me.  Now  I  have  a 
jug  of  hot  water  at  my  feet,  and  two  blankets  rolled 
around  me  to  the  knees,  and  am  just  comfortable,  ex- 
cept my  hands,  which  are  icy  cold  in  spite  of  all  I  can 
do.  I  see  Holland  going  by  in  oval  strips  through  the 
three  cabin  windows  opposite  me.  It  is  chiefly  wind- 
mills, and  the  ships  look  like  Chinese  junks.  Every 
few  minutes  we  pass  small  steamers  towing  five  and 
six  of  them  up  stream.  The  outer  cabin  had  six 
Dutchmen  in  it,  all  smoking  like  furnaces.  So  I  have 
coaxed  the  conductor  to  let  me  stay  in  his  cabin,  and 
he  is  writing  away  at  his  round  table  on  invoices,  etc. 
Last  night  I  had  the  washbowl,  pitcher,  etc.,  on  the 
same  table,  and  this  morning  he  had  to  come  in  to  get 
at  his  books  before  I  had  finished  washing  my  hands. 
He  only  knows  two  English  words,  "  all  right,"  and 
he  says  them  whenever  he  comes  in  or  goes  out,  and 
pulls  off  his  shiny  black  silk  cap  and  bows  to  me.  He 
cannot  imagine  what  I  am  writing.  The  Fraulein  told 
him  her  lady  would  recommend  his  boat  everywhere, 
and  so  I  do.     All  of  you  remember  that  if  you  want 


^84     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

to  get  from  Rotterdam  up  the  Rhine,  you  will  do  best 
to  take  the  Netherlands  line,  not  the  Cologne  and  Dus- 
seldorf.  Such  good  things  to  eat  as  we  have  liad  for 
this  day  and  a  half,  such  clean  sheets  and  blankets  to 
sleep  in,  and  such  kind  and  pleasant  service,  I  have  not 
seen  since  we  left  Munich.  Last  night  the  waiter 
brought  in  a  Ught  for  us  to  burn  all  night,  lest  we 
might  be  afraid.  Such  a  contrivance  as  it  was !  A 
tumbler  half  full  of  oil,  floating  on  it  a  thing  made  of 
three  round  bits  of  cork,  and  in  the  middle  what  looked 
like  a  thin  white  wafer  with  a  bit  of  candle-wick  in  it; 
and  burn,  burn,  burn,  it  burned  all  night,  with  a  queer 
little  glimmer  which  only  showed  how  dark  the  cabin 
was.  Whenever  I  half  waked  up  and  saw  it  I  said, 
"  Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star,  how  I  wonder  what  you 
are !  "  and  dozed  off  again,  thinking  of  Alice  in  Wonder 
Land.  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  —  you  who  know  that 
delicious  book — that  "Lewis  Carroll"  is  a  woman,  quite 
young,  who  never  wrote  anything  else  but  "  Alice  "  ? 

Rotterdam,  Friday  Morning.  —  I  suppose  there  must 
be  some  reason  why  it  is  best  that  I  should  not  see  the 
Hague,  as  I  had  intended  to  do  to-day ;  but  I  must 
own  I  was  in  a  rebellious  frame  of  mind  to  find,  when 
I  waked  up  this  morning,  solid  sheets  of  rain  pouring 
down.  As  if  there  were  not  water  enough  in  Rotter- 
dam !  So  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  wait  quietly  for 
my  ship  for  London  to-morrow  morning.  Poor  Frau- 
lein  is  the  picture  of  woe.  She  has  read  all  her  maga- 
zines, and  now  has  fallen  back  on  an  old  almanac  which 
she  borrowed  of  the  waiter.  To  sit  still  is  as  great  a 
misery  for  her  as  if  she  were  five  years  old  instead 
of  fifty-two,  and  she  is  so  near-sighted  that  she 
cannot  amuse  herself  by  looking  out  of  the  windows  as 
I  do. 

These  Dutch  women  are  the  drollest  figures  I  have 
seen  yet.  They  are  running  back  and  forth  in  this  rain 
with  white  fluted  caps  on  their  heads,  and  white  wooden 
shoes  turned  up  at  the  toes  like  Chinese  junks,  — just 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     285 

euch  as  the  poorest  peasants  wear  in  the  Tyrol  in  wet 
weather.  And  such  scrubbing  as  goes  on  in  the  morn- 
ing here,  never  did  I  see  !  Opposite  my  windows  —  in 
all  the  rain  —  a  woman  with  pails  and  pails  and  pails  of 
water,  and  a  broom,  and  a  mop,  and  cloths,  scrubbing 
the  sidewalks  and  the  doorstep  for  two  whole  hours! 
0,  if  I  were  an  artist,  would  I  not  have  made  a  picture, 
"A  Wet  Morning  in  Eotterdam,"  —  the  shop  door  and 
the  windows,  and  this  woman  flooding  the  sidewalk 
with  water,  and  scouring  away  with  her  mop,  and 
all  the  time  the  rain  pouring  down  on  her  fluted  cap 
and  into  her  wooden  shoes  1 

Now  I  go  out  in  a  close  carriage  to  see  Rotterdam. 
It  is  too  bad !  so  much  I  should  have  enjoyed  running 
up  to  the  Hague  this  morning,  and  loafing  in  these 
streets  this  afternoon  !  I  must  be  forgiven  for  this  one 
little  grumble.  Poor  Fraulein  is  fast  asleep  on  the  sofa. 
She  looks  much  older  when  she  is  asleep,  I  see.  When 
she  is  awake,  and  her  eyes  and  her  dimples  at  work, 
nobody  would  think  her  over  forty.  When  she  came 
in  yesterday,  she  said,  "  0  my  lady,  what  think  you  a 
man  said  on  me  ?  When  I  go  on  the  post-office  for 
your  letter,  five  men  they  sit  by  table  to  play  cards, 
and  each  man  he  have  —  so^  in  his  mouth,  (making  one 
very  big  cheek  with  her  tongue,  to  indicate  a  tobacco 
plug !)  and  one  man  he  say,  '  Dunderwetter,  but  that 
wife  is  fat! '  and  I  make  my  eyes  not  to  right,  not  to 
left,  as  if  I  nothing  hear,  but  I  feel  my  get  very  red  in 
the  face !  " 

Never  have  I  seen  any  human  being  with  such  talent 
for  mimicry  as  this  Fraulein.  On  the  stage  she  would 
have  made  her  fortune.  I  have  laughed  more  in  these 
seven  days'  journeying  with  her  than  in  the  whole  last 
year  put  together.  There  is  no  human  thing  she  cannot 
become  in  one  second.  The  changes  in  her  face,  when 
she  is  telling  a  story,  sometimes  almost  frighten  me. 
Last  night  she  told  me  about  an  interview  with  a  priest ; 
and  the  sanctimonious  priestly  face  that  she  lengthened 


286     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

out  into  in  one  second,  and  the  drawl  and  whine,  were 
such  as  I  never  have  seen  outdone  on  any  stage. 

Farewell,  now,  my  dear  souls,  till  I  get  to  London. 

Evening.  —  But  I  must  tell  you  a  little  about  my  day. 
The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  get  some  money. 
Mons.  Ezekiels  was  the  prophetic  name  on  my  letter 
of  credit.     Were  the  banking-houses  open  all  day  ? 

"  0  yes;  all  day." 

0  the  things  that  people  don't  know  about  their  own 
city !  I  wonder  a  dozen  times  a  month  if  I  should  lie 
so,  in  giving  a  stranger  information  about  New  York. 
I  suppose  I  should. 

Well,  to  Ezekiels  we  went.  To  get  anywhere  in 
Rotterdam  you  drive  a  long  way  up  one  side  of  a  canal, 
till  you  come  to  a  bridge  that  has  n't  a  ship  going 
through,  and  then,  after  you  have  crossed  that  bridge, 
you  drive  a  long  way  down  the  other  side  of  the  canal, 
and  tlirough  a  narrow  lane  out  on  the  banks  of  another 
canal,  and  cross  that,  and  then  you  cross  the  first  canal 
once  or  twice  more,  and  drive  up  and  down  on  the 
shores  of  the  second,  and  then  you  gtt  there  1  This  is 
the  way  it  looks.  I  suppose  the  canals  and  lanes  really 
are  far  apart  from  each  other,  and  called  by  different 
names,  but  they  all  feel  alike,  and  you  can  see  your 
face  in  every  bit  of  window-glass  or  door-bell  along 
the  way.  There  is  n't  any  place  left  for  godliness  next 
to  cleanliness  in  Rotterdam,  I  am  sure ;  cleanhness  has 
taken  all  the  room ! 

A  long,  low,  stone-paved,  stone-arched  passage-way 
led  to  Ezekiels's  counting-room  at  the  back  of  his  house ; 
his  cellar  and  kitchen  were  on  the  same  floor ;  a  woman 
in  wooden  shoes  was  scrubbing  his  floor;  and  such 
shining  pans  and  kettles  filled  his  kitchen,  they  al- 
most lit  the  stone  gallery.  No  Ezekiels!  Loquitur^ 
young  man  with  a  yard  of  Jew  nose,  "  All  banking- 
houses  in  Rotterdam  shut  from  twelve  till  three  I  " 

So  I  drove  off.  Saw  old  Admiral  de  Witt  in  stone 
in  the  St.  Lawrence  Church,  and  the  funny  high  seats 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     287 

with  tent-roofs  over  them,  where  the  burgomasters  sit 
of  a  Sunday ;  bought  some  photographs ;  saw  statue 
of  Erasmus;  and  back  again  to  tlie  Jew's.  Five  Jew 
noses  all  turned  and  pointed  at  me  as  I  went  in.  "I 
will  take  gold,''  I  said.  "  0,  we  have  no  gold;  we  will 
give  you  good  Dutch  currency."  "  But  I  am  going  to 
England.  I  do  not  want  Dutch  currency."  All  five  of  the 
Jew  noses  sniffed  at  the  idea  of  a  benighted  individual's 
preferring  gold  to  Dutch  currency,  and  the  young  man 
said,  "  You  can  get  it  changed  for  gold  on  the  Boom- 
pjes."  (Wish  you  all  joy  pronouncing  that  word.)  So 
I  patiently  took  my  bundle  of  flabby  Dutch  currency, 
and  bowed  to  all  five  of  the  Jew  noses,  and  drove  off, 
up  and  down  half  a  dozen  more  alternating  strips  of 
canal  and  street,  and  found  another  Jew  who  gave  me 
gold  for  my  paper.  This  is  the  first  banking-house  in 
which  I  have  had  to  do  such  a  clumsy  and  absurd 
thing. 

Now  all  is  packed  and  strapped  and  ready  for  the 
morrow.  I  have  a  big  ache  at  leaving  my  great  Frau- 
lein.  I  shall  feel  like  a  swallow  pushed  out  of  the  nest 
to  fly  alone. 

On  hoard  steamer,  nine  o'clock,  a.  m.,  Saturday, 
October  11.  — Lest  I  forget  some  of  the  scenes  of  the 
last  half-hour,  I  have  taken  out  my  pen  and  inkstand 
and  paper  (to  the  stewardess's  great  surprise),  and 
while  the  boat  only  rocks  a  little,  I  shall  try  to  tell  you 
what  sort  of  a  time  we  have  had.  Dear  Fraulein's 
train  for  Cologne  was  to  start  at  eight  o'clock  this 
morning,  the  boat  for  London  not  till  nine. 

"  0  my  dear  lady,  could  you  not  go  on  board  at 
half  past  seven,  that  I  see  you  all  comfortable  before  I 
go?"  So,  to  please  her,  I  ordered  breakfast  at  half  past 
six,  and  down  to  the  boat  we  came  at  seven.  A  more 
surprised  stewardess  was  never  seen,  nor  a  darker, 
colder  den  than  the  ladies'  cabin.  However,  I  saw  the 
wisdom  of  the  Fraulein's  plan  in  the  increased  respect 
of  the  stewardess's  manner.     She  stood  by  with  wide 


288     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

eyes  to  see  the  great  splendid  Fraulein  crying  and  kiss- 
ing my  hands.  Really  I  have  not  had  such  a  parting 
for  years.  I  did  not  know  the  good  soul  had  so  taken 
me  to  heart. 

After  she  went  off  the  boat,  the  stewardess  was  over- 
whelmingly polite,  much  more  than  she  would  have 
ordinarily  been  to  a  lady  as  went  "hout  by  'erself." 
But  the  Fraulein  told  her  that  she  had  come  all  the 
way  from  Munich  to  bring  me,  and  that  my  friends 
were  to  meet  me  in  London,  and  so  she  thinks  I  am 
"  quality  " ;  and  would  I  'ave  this  berth  or  that  ?  This 
one  would  "  perhaps  'ave  too  much  hair "  for  me. 
("  The  best  one  I  could  go  into,"  thinks  I  to  myself) 

At  last  I  persuaded  her  to  let  me  have  a  stateroom 
in  the  gentlemen's  cabin,  out  of  which  the  den  called 
ladies'  cabin  opens,  and  not  a  stateroom  in  it !  Think 
of  that,  woman's  rights  people  I  So  I  am  to  pay  for 
two  berths,  and  for  once  in  my  life  count  as  good  as 
two  men ! 

"  Who  are  you,  who  are  you,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 
screamed  out  a  great  gray  parrot  in  a  cage  above  the 
table.  Then  a  canary-bird,  in  another  cage,  set  up  the 
shrillest  sort  of  song  before  I  could  reply  to  the  parrot, 
and  "  Can't  you  speak,  —  don't  you  know  your  name  ?  " 
said  the  parrot ;  "  I  'm  pretty  Poll,  —  pretty  Poll ; 
what 's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Well,"  thought  I,  "  you  're  very  funny  for  once,  but 
eighteen  hours  of  you  will  be  quite  too  much,"  and  I 
curled  myself  up  on  a  sofa,  and  rolled  my  feet  up  in  a 
blanket,  and  thought  I  would  take  a  nap  before  the 
boat  started.  The  steward  and  clerk  and  stewardess 
were  eating  their  breakfast  in  the  outer  cabin,  and 
looking  at  me  through  the  open  door. 

"  Dirty  weather,"  said  the  steward. 

"  Yes,  beastly,"  said  the  stewardess,  "  but  the  cap- 
tain says  there  's  no  use  waiting ;  it  won't  be  any 
better  to-morrow." 

This  was  cheerful.     I,  in  my  innocence,  thought  it 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.      289 

only  a  quiet  drizzle,  but  I  see  it  is  going  to  be  another 
aflfair  when  we  get  outside. 

Presently  I  heard  the  gayest  little  bird-laugh  in  the 
cabin,  and  "  Dear  mamma,  let  me  come  with  you." 
"  No,  dear,  stay  there  till  I  come  back  " ;  and  a  tall, 
fair  English  lady  came  into  the  cabin,  looking  for  her 
berths.  She  had  a  sweet  voice  and  face,  and  the  little 
girl's  voice  was  like  a  bird's.  In  a  few  moments  more 
the  httle  thing  came  tripping  in.  Such  a  head  of  curls, 
and  such  gray  eyes,  and  such  a  jolly  little  straw  hat 
tipped  on  one  side  of  her  head !  I  involuntarily  ex- 
claimed, "  0  you  dear  little  lady  I  "  She  skipped  along, 
laughing,  and  took  no  notice  of  me. 

"  Do  you  like  the  steamboat  ? "  said  I,  as  she  ran 
about,  looking  into  every  corner. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  quite  shortly,  and  then,  turning  back 
suddenly,  she  said,  "  How  rfareyou  look  out  that  way !  " 
I  could  not  imagine  what  she  meant,  and  I  said,  "  I 
don't  understand  you ;  look  out  what  way  ?  " 

"Why,  at  mc,"  she  said;  "you  shouldn't  stare.  I 
hate  staring  people." 

Fancy  me !  I  laughed  till  the  tears  rolled,  and  then 
I  said  :  "  I  '11  tell  you  why  I  stared  so.  It  is  because 
I  love  little  children  so  much.  When  I  see  a  little  boy 
or  girl  coming,  I  can't  help  looking  at  them.  Is  n't 
that  a  good  reason  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  reflectively,  looking  a  little  appeased, 
"  but  I  hate  staring  people." 

However,  she  came  up  close  to  me  presently,  and  put 
her  little  cold  paws  on  mine,  and  said,  pointing  to  my 
bag  and  bundle,  which  were  at  my  feet,  "  You  can't 
have  those  in  here ;  it  is  not  allowed,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"  0  my !  "  said  I ;  "  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Three  and  a  quarter,"  said  she,  dancing  off  and 
laughing.  Then  she  grew  quite  friendly,  and  invited 
me  to  go  with  her  and  look  at  the  little  bed  in  their 
corner ;  and  then  her  mamma  bundled  her  up,  and 
took  her  on  deck,  for  it  has  stopped  raining,  and  for 

13  8 


290 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


people  who  have  not  horrible  colds  that  is  the  best 
place. 

Then  came  a  stir  at  the  door,  and  a  man  appeared 
bringing  in  his  arms  a  girl,  perhaps  twenty  years  old, 
with  the  most  glorious  auburn  hair  I  ever  saw.  Two 
other  girls  followed  w'ith  pillows  and  bundles,  and  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  an  invalid.  O,  such  a  terrible  time 
as  it  was  to  get  her  into  the  narrow  berth  !  There  was 
evidently  a  mystery  about  it  all.  One  sister  whispered 
to  the  stewardess,  who  grew  frightened-looking  at 
once,  and  the  other  sister  held  the  invalid's  hands,  and 
a  fearful  instinct  seized  me  that  the  girl  was  insane. 
How  I  pitied  the  poor  elder  sister  who  had  her  in 
charge !  I  never  saw  a  difficult  place  better  filled. 
There  is  a  gentleman  with  them,  who  is  either  brother 
or  doctor,  I  cannot  make  out  which.  They  are  Ger- 
mans, but  speak  English  perfectly.  She  is  quiet,  but 
looks  wildly  about  from  time  to  time.  Then  came  in  a 
great  sofa,  which  they  are  carrying  about  with  them,  and 
then  a  trunk,  which  must  be  there  too,  and  the  whole 
cabin  hardly  big  enough  to  turn  round  in.  How  that 
elder  girl  did  manage  the  stewardess,  and  how  I  did 
thank  my  stars  that  I  had  secured  a  stateroom  in  the 
outer  cabin !  Next  were  produced  from  the  trunk 
three  long  narrow  black  bags,  like  umbrella  cages,  and 
"  Has  the  ice  been  brought  on  board  ?  "  said  they. 
"  0  yes,  mum,  the  hice  is  'ere,"  said  the  stewardess. 

"  Well,  these  bags  are  for  sea-sickness,  to  prevent 
sea-sickness,  to  be  applied  to  the  spine,"  said  the 
elder  young  lady,  and  then  followed  the  drollest  sort 
of  a  discussion  between  the  stewardess  and  her.  I 
had  to  put  my  veil  over  my  face. 

"  Well,  mum,  I  '11  put  the  hice  in,  but  the  screwing 
up  part  of  it  you  '11  'ave  to  do  yourself;  and  if  you  all 
gets  bad  to  once,  I  don't  know  who  '11  be  a  puttin'  of 
these  'ere  to  your  speings." 

Then  came  in  a  pretty  German  woman,  with  a  nurse 
and  baby,  and,  "  Stewardess,  if  I  am  sick,  will  you 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


291 


just  take  my  baby  a  little  ;  and  a  few  drops  of  this  in 
the  bottle  if  he  is  hungry." 

At  this  crisis  I  picked  myself  out  and  came  away. 
The  stewardess  put  my  bag  and  shawl  in  my  stateroom, 
and  I  said  to  her,  "I  fear  you  are  going  to  have  a  terrible 
night,  stewardess,  with  the  sick  lady  and  the  baby." 

"  Well,  mum,  you  may  well  say  so,  and  /am  to  feed 
the  baby,  you  know,  while  the  nurse  keeps  quiet  in  her 
berth,"  with  a  toss  of  her  head ;  "  it 's  more  than  'uman 
nature  can  bear  sometimes,  is  it,  in  these  ships,  mum, 
and  the  poor  young  lady  is  not  right  in  her  'ead,  and 
it 's  such  nasty  weather." 

Luckily  there  are  only  two  other  ladies  in  the  cabin 
besides  those  I  have  named,  but  I  do  not  see  .... 

London,  Monday^  18th.  —  In  less  than  an  hour  after 
that  last  sentence,  I  was  the  sickest  mortal  you  ever  saw. 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  tell  you  the  horrors  of  that 
voyage !  From  twelve  o'clock  Saturday  noon  till  twelve 
o'clock  Sunday  noon,  I  lay  in  my  berth  in  a  condition 
of  which  I  never  even  conceived.  Never  but  once  have 
they  known  so  rough  a  passage.  There  was  no  real 
danger,  they  said,  but  0  the  misery  I  Now,  at  last,  I 
know  what  sea-sickness  means.  Except  that  the  cap- 
tain said  it  never  could  be  so  bad  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
I  would  never  come  home.  The  channel  boils  all  ways 
at  once.  You  are  lifted  endwise,  sidewise,  and  whopped 
over  in  a  second.  For  six  hours  every  wave  hit  the 
boat  like  an  iron  wall,  and  broke  over  it ;  the  winds 
howled  like  devils  ;  and  the  sailors'  cries  sounded  hke 
the  wails  of  lost  spirits;  and  till  eleven  o'clock  at  night 
that  fiendish  parrot  never  stopped  its  silly  screeching  I 

At  one  o'clock,  Sunday  noon,  I  landed;  at  three  I 

was  eating  cold  mutton  and  drinking  ale  in  the  E s's 

pleasant  parlor,  and  had  forgotten  all  about  the  sea- 
sickness, so  like  a  miracle  does  it  pass  off.    Then  in  the 

evening    came  darling  S C and   stayed   till 

eleven  o'clock.  Think  of  the  good  luck  of  my  just 
catching  her !    She  and  Miss  F go  to  Paris  to-day. 


292 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


It  is  so  dark  I  can  but  just  see  at  this  writing,  —  about 
two  in  the  afternoon.  Howie,  the  dear  httle  fellow, 
says,  "  0,  this  is  nothing  I  You  should  have  seen  the 
fog  last  week.    They  lit  candles  at  twelve  of  the  noon." 

Now,  London !  It  looks  well ;  all  but  weather,  and 
that  I  knew  I  could  not  get.  I  have  a  lovely  little  par- 
lor and  bedroom,  and  the  E s  also  have  a  parlor 

and  two  bedrooms,  and  we  are  to  buy  our  beef  and 
mutton,  and  the  landlady  has  it  cooked. 

"  Economical  Funeral "  was  one  of  the  first  signs 
I  saw  yesterday,  as  I  drove  up  from  the  boat ! 

Fifteen  letters  awaited  me  here  !  Bless  you,  all  who 
Wrote.     Good  by.     Peace  be  with  you. 


P.  S.  —  Particulars  of  the  eclipse  next  time.     It  is  n't 
ijuite  so  dark  as  I  thought  it  would  be. 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


293 


Great  Malvern,  December  13, 1869. 

DEAR  PEOPLE:  How  shall  I  make  my  tale  of 
bricks  this  time,  having  come  away  from  all  sorts 
of  straw  ?  But  you  will  none  of  you  believe  me  if  I 
say  there  is  nothing  to  write  about  in  Malvern ;  and 
you  will  all  of  you  be  vexed  with  me  if  I  send  you,  for 
once,  a  short  letter.  It  has  just  dawned  upon  me  that 
I  have  spoiled  you  horribly  in  this  one  year.  It  is 
high  time  I  left  off  my  monthly  sermon.  I  know  just 
how  the  ministers  feel  on  Friday:  I  see  'Jhe  fifteenth 
standing  and  staring  me  in  the  face  just  hke  a  Sunday, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  I  can't,  as  the  children  say, 
"  think  of  anything  to  say !  "  But  now,  as  I  go  on, 
a  misgiving  seizes  me  that  I  am  the  one  who  is 
spoiled  after  all,  thinking  that  there  is  nothing  worth 
telling  you  about  because  I  am  not  up  to  my  ears  in 
sights  of  the  technical  order.  Yes,  I  am  the  one  who 
is  spoiled,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  myself —  here  in  this 
lovely,  quiet,  green  English  country,  and  on  such  a 
hillside  as  you  may  look  America  through  for  and  not 
find  —  to  have  said  there  was  nothing  to  tell  you. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  just  come  to  you  from  read- 
ing the  saga  of  Grettir  the  Strong,  translated  by  dear, 
delicious  William  Morris;  and  somehow  to-day  the 
simply  being  alive,  and  not  killing  anybody,  nor  sailing 
across  any  sea,  seems  not  worth  speaking  about,  unless 
there  were  Morris  and  Magnussen  to  tell  it  in  fashion 
of  sagas. 

Well,  now  I  '11  go  and  get  the  Malvern  Guide,  and 
see  what  it  says  about  Malvern.  I  hate  to  leave  my 
fire  a  minute,  and  I  don't  know  where  the  book  is ;  but 
it  is  somewhere  about  the  house,  and  unless  I  have  that 


2  94 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


open  before  me,  I  shall  be  sure  to  tell  some  lie  or  other 
about  "  .  .  .  .  feet  above  the  sea,"  etc. 

"  Malvern,  so  interesting  to  the  geologist,  lover  of 
nature,  botanist,  and  antiquarian,  possesses  unique  and 
attractive  historical  reminiscences.  In  ancient  medi- 
aeval, as  well  as  modern  times,  the  tall  brow  of  its  bard- 
hill  was  an  object  of  much  interest."  "  The  town  of 
Malvern  strangely  contrasts  with  that  vulgar  succession 
of  streets,  courts,  alleys,  etc.,  that  are  usually  so  denom- 
inated. In  place  of  streets  it  has  a  succession  of  fashion- 
able mansions ;  in  place  of  courts  and  alleys  it  has  vil- 
las, crescents,  and  terraces ;  and,  though  town  in  feet,  it 
is  little  like  one  in  external  aspect.  It  has  few  build- 
ings consecutively  joined  together,  and  consists  chiefly 
of  separate  and  distinct  residences." 

There  are  one  hundred  and  seventy-two  pages  of 
this,  my  people !  Think  of  my  having  thoughtlessly 
said  there  was  nothing  to  be  told  about  Malvern, 
and  yet  this  valuable  work  had  been  lying  for  two 
weeks  on  my  table.  I  am  more  than  ever  impressed  by 
the  style  of  it,  as  I  look  it  over  with  a  view  of  making 
quotations.  Some  slight  ambiguities  I  observe,  here  and 
there,  owing  to  the  size  of  the  words,  which  appear  to 
overlap  each  other  a  little.  For  instance,  to  a  practical 
mind  it  might  occur  that  it  would  be  troublesome  get- 
ting about  in  a  town  where  there  were  no  streets,  and 
only  "  a  succession  of  fashionable  mansions."  But  sleighs 
drawn  by  reindeer,  after  the  pattern  of  that  in  which 
Darley  drew  St.  Nicholas,  glide  without  difficulty  over 
the  chimney-tops ;  and  for  pedestrian  excursions  stilts, 
made  by  the  boot-maker  of  Jack's  giant,  enable  us  to 
step  over  the  "  villas  and  residences  "  which  obstruct 
our  way. 

"  Another  feature  that  greatly  distinguishes  the  cli- 
mate of  Malvern  is  the  perfect  dryness  and  elasticity 
of  the  air." 

Here  the  ambiguity  wliich  characterizes  the  style  of 
the  author  of  tlie  Malvern  Guide  seems  really,  though 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


295 


I  shrink  from  saying  anything  harsh,  to  run  into  some- 
thing which  IS  usually  called  by  a  severer  name.  I  have 
only  been  in  the  town  three  weeks,  to  be  sure,  so  per- 
haps my  observations  are  too  limited  to  be  set  against 
his ;  but  it  is  fourteen  days  now  since  we  have  seen  the 
sun,  except  for  one  half-hour  day  before  yesterday,  and 
another  this  morning.  On  all  those  fourteen  days  the 
whole  county  of  Worcestershire,  which  lies  spread  out 
in  a  beautiful  meadow  map  below  Malvern,  has  been 
wrapped  in  impenetrable  fogs,  which  much  of  the  time 
have  climbed  the  liill,  walling  our  house  in  with  a  dead- 
white  sort  of  ground-glass-looking  substance,  which 
has  slowly  oozed  and  trickled  and  drizzled  down  on  the 
tops  of  our  umbrellas,  without  which  we  have  never 
been  out.  Had  enough  guide-book?  Then  I  '11  tell 
you  why  we  came,  and  when. 

We  came  up  on  the  22d  November,  five  days  after  I 
mailed  my  last  letter  to  you.  That  was  the  when.  And 
the  why  ?  Because  we  were  persuaded  that  if  we  were 
only  once  well  washed  in  our  lives  we  should  become 
as  little  children. 

I  came  on  ahead  by  a  few  hours  and  looked  up  lodg- 
ings. Ah,  my  people,  don't  believe  one  word  you  hear 
written  or  said  against  "  lodgings  "  !  It  is  the  ideal 
way  of  living,  and  England  is  the  country  of  comfort. 
If  I  were  to  set  forth,  in  as  glowing  language  as  I 
might,  how  comfortable  we  are,  you  would  all  say,  "  0, 
that  is  only  her  enthusiastic  way  of  describing  things ; 
it  can't  be  as  she  says !  "  But  listen  now  to  naked 
facts. 

We  are  in  one  of  the  houses  in  Malvern,  but  whether 
it  is  a  "  mansion  "  or  a  "  villa  "  or  a  '•  residence,"  I 
don't  know.  It  is  called,  however,  "  Holyrood  House." 
So  perhaps  it  is  something  grander  than  any  of  those 
three  other  kinds.  At  any  rate,  it  is  n't  a  "crescent" 
or  a  "  terrace."  I  am  sure  of  that  Holyrood  House 
is  kept  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown,  who  have  been,  I 
think,  chief  butler  and  housekeeper  in  some   noble 


296     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

family  in  days  gone  by.  There  are  five  apartments  in 
it;  that  is,  there  are  five  sitting-rooms,  with  bed- 
rooms to  match,  —  some  with  one,  some  with  two. 

I  pay  for  a  nice  little  parlor  and  bedroom,  and  a 
blazing  coal-fire  all  day  in  each,  twenty-eight  shil- 
lings a  week  ($  7  in  gold).  Think  of  that,  ye  un- 
fortunate New-Yorkers,  who  could  n't  get  a  back-stoop 

in  Sixth  Avenue  for  that  money.     The  E s  have  a 

parlor  and  two  bedrooms  on  the  same  floor  for  ten 
shillings  more. 

We  pay  three  shillings  and  sixpence  for  the  kitchen 
fire ;  we  pay  one  shilling  a  week  for  the  hall  gas. 
Then  we  buy  what  we  want  to  eat,  and  Mrs.  Brown 
cooks  it  for  us ;  and  we  have  our  own  private  table 
and  especial  housekeeping  and  undisturbed  life,  just  as 
safe  and  secure  as  if  we  were  in  a  great  house  all  to 
ourselves,  with  five  servants.  We  pay  for  the  washing 
of  each  thing  we  use,  table  and  bedroom  linen  ;  so  we 
can  have  all  we  like.  The  service  is  admirable.  0 
the  quiet  and  order  and  gentleness  of  these  English 
servants !  It  is  as  good  as  soothing-syrup  to  tired 
nerves  to  see  them  moving  about.  The  china  and 
silver  are  all  not  only  good,  but  nice  and  pretty  and 
abundant.  We  can  have  three  or  four  friends  to  tea 
as  satisfactorily  as  in  our  own  house,  and  thus  far  it 
has  never  cost  us  over  one  pound  a  week  each  for  the 
living,  aside  from  the  rent. 

How  in  the  world  the  down-stairs  part  of  it  is  man- 
aged, I  cannot  imagine.  Why  we  don't  eat  Dr.  Mau- 
prat's  butter,  and  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dickey  does  n't  get  our 
herring,  is  a  mystery  to  me.  But  Mrs.  Brown  says  I 
may  go  down  stairs  some  day,  and  see  her  pantry, 
and  then  I  shall  understand.  She  has  shelves  numbered 
with  the  numbers  of  the  rooms,  and  our  cold  mutton  is 
always  set  in  our  corner,  above  our  sugar,  and  below 
our  bread  and  carrots.  When  I  get  the  exact  run  of  it, 
I  shall  write  an  article  for  the  Independent  about  the 
system,  in  the  wild,  baseless  hope  of  setting  somebody 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


297 


to  do  likewise  in  America.  Think  of  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  privacy,  comfort,  and  economy  of  such  an 
arrangement  as  this,  and  the  dens  of  high-priced  misery 
called  boarding-houses,  in  New  York  or  Boston.  It  is 
ft  bewildering  thing  that  we  in  America,  with  every 
Facility  for  being  more  comfortable  than  any  other 
nation  in  the  world,  should  be  less  so  in  this  one  mat- 
ter of  living.  If  into  these  comfortable,  well-ordered 
English  lodging-houses  could  be  brought  our  Indian 
corn,  our  oysters,  our  squashes,  our  poultry,  our  toma- 
toes, our  apples,  our  cracked  wheat,  and  if  through 
their  great  clean  windows  could  shine  our  sun,  life,  so 
far  as  the  body  goes,  would  be  perfect.  I  remember, 
before  I  came  abroad,  I  used  every  now  and  then  to 
read  in  the  papers  a  despairing  wail  from  somebody  or 
other  about  the  superiority  of  the  foreign  methods  of 
living  in  apartments  in  comparison  with  boarding,  but 
I  never  quite  beheved  it.  I  thought  there  would  prove 
to  be  a  screw  loose  somewhere  when  I  came  to  try  it ; 
and  so  there  is,  for  that  matter,  when  it  is  in  Rome  that 
you  do  it,  and  have  to  have  your  dinner  come  in  on  a 
man's  head,  from  a  horrible  "  trattoria."  It  is  not  abso- 
lute perfection,  either,  in  Munich,  even  in  my  beloved 
Fraulein's  house,  where,  do  her  best,  she  cannot  be 
other  than  a  German  cook.  I  believe  it  is  only  in  old 
England  that  the  climax  of  success  is  reached ;  and, 
my  people,  you  should  taste  the  mutton !  Can't  you 
believe  that  a  sheep  that  had  eaten  purple  thyme 
steadily  for  four  months  would  taste  marvellously  well 
at  the  end  of  that  time  ?  I  have  seen  as  good  roast 
beef  in  America  as  can  be  bought  here,  say  what  they 
will  about  their  national  dish  ;  but  mutton  !  Give  up  ! 
We  never  tasted  it  in  America.  I  did  not  know  what 
it  could  be.  And  they  broil  it,  too,  0  friends,  if  it  is 
in  the  shape  of  a  chop  you  have  it.  Even  in  the  little 
inns  in  out-of-the-way  places,  where  you  stop  for  a 
lunch,  your  chop  is  broiled,  and  your  plate  is  hot.  4 
fried  chop  on  a  cold  plate,  —  that  perpetual  insult,  that 
13* 


298     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

unchristian  outrage,  which  pursues  the  traveller  in  ITew 
England,  from  Monday  morning  till  Saturday  night,  — 
it  would  make  an  English  landlord  stand  still  in  wonder 
to  see. 

A  week  ago  last  Friday  we  drove  over  to  a  lovely 
little  village  eight  miles  from  Malvern,  went  to  the 
village  church,  roamed  about  the  graveyard,  and  dined 
at  the  inn.  From  the  outside  of  it  we  felt  misgiving, 
it  was  so  very  small  and  humble.  The  whole  village 
street  had  not  more  than  twenty  houses,  and  they  were 
the  houses  of  laborers.  Our  dinner  was  laid  in  the  one 
room  beside  the  kitchen,  —  bare  wooden  floor,  wooden 
settle,  wooden  chairs,  old  cherry  sideboard,  tiny  little 
windows  high  up  in  the  wall ;  but  the  landlord  pinned 
on  a  white  napkin  to  wait  on  us,  and  served  us  with 
the  ease  of  an  old  butler,  —  broiled  chops,  broiled  bacon, 
potatoes  white  and  mealy  to  the  point  of  crumbling, 
good  bread,  delicious  butter,  home-brewed  ale,  and  a 
hot  apple-tart,  whose  crust  would  not  have  dishonored 
any  table,  and  whose  flavor  of  lemon  and  mace  might 
well  be  remembered  among  the  apple-tarts  of  one's 
youth.  O,  how  we  abused  our  native  land  round  that 
table,  when  the  landlord  was  out  of  the  room !  how 
we  said  to  each  other,  "  Fancy  the  dinner  we  should 
have  had  in  any  New  England  town  no  larger  than 
this, —  the  soggy  potatoes,  the  saleratus  bread,  the 
pickles,  the  doughnuts,  and  the  gravy  !  Who  will  head 
a  subscription  for  Blot's  lectures  to  be  delivered  through- 
out the  land,  and  the  governors  to  compel  all  heads  of 
families  to  attend  ?  Who  will  lift  up  her  voice,  or  his, 
and  write,  write,  write  in  all  newspapers  till  we  have 
better  things  to  eat?  Now  slavery  is  no  more,  we 
might  be  free  from  dyspepsia !  "  So  we  said  ;  and  then 
we  went  over  to  call  at  the  vicar's  house,  he  having 
politely  asked  us  to  lunch  with  him,  fearing  we  might 
not  be  well  fed  at  the  inn  ;  and  we  found  liim  a  pale, 
sickly,  dyspeptic-looking  man,  just  having  taken  a 
W^ishy  cup  of  tea,  and  an  egg,  and  some  dark-looking 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


299 


bread  and  white  butter.  Were  n't  we  glad  we  did  n't 
accept  his  invitation  to  lunch,  if  his  page  did  have  1,733 
buttons  on  the  front  of  his  body  ? 

But  I  have  run  on  in  a  way  befitting  "gluttons  and 
wine-bibbers."  You  would  not  wonder,  however,  if 
you  knew  what  it  was  to  come  into  luxurious  eating 
and  drinking  after  having  lived  a  year  on  old  stones 
and  oil  paint.  I  think  I  shall  not  escape  for  some 
months  from  a  perpetual  sort  of  undercurrent  of  con- 
sciousness, like  a  refrain  to  a  song  which  won't  get  out 
of  one's  head,  "  Beef,  mutton,  oatmeal,  oatmeal,  mut- 
ton, beef";  and  as  for  the  fires,  I  shall  spend  half 
toy  time,  till  spring,  poking  them  to  see  the  flames 
shoot  up. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  a  little  of  the  routine  of  the 
life  of  a  water-cure  patient ;  a  water-cure  impatient 
would  be  nearer  the  truth.  Life  under  the  water-treat- 
ment is  a  series  of  interruptions,  unbuttonings  and  but- 
tonings  up,  and  we  all  know  what  drove  that  French- 
man to  suicide.  Interruption  first  is  of  your  morning 
naps.  If  one  is  to  be  packed  in  wet  sheets  for  one 
hour,  dress,  and  walk  for  fifteen  minutes,  and  then  sit 
still  for  fifleen  minutes,  all  before  a  nine-o'clock  break- 
fast, it  is  plain,  to  be  sure,  that  quarter  before  seven  is 
the  latest  possible  minute  for  beginning.  Quarter  be- 
fore seven  is  an  hour  and  a  quarter  before  light  just 
now,  even  on  this  eastern  hillside,  which  gets  the  first 
wink  of  the  sun.  When  Annie,  the  silent  chamber- 
maid, with  a  smutty  Honiton-lace  cap  on  her  head, 
comes  into  my  room  at  half  past  six  to  make  my  fire, 
I  always  think  that  somethmghas  happened  in  the  way 
of  accident,  and  that  I  am  being  summoned  in  a  hurry. 
"  0  Annie,  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  I  said  regularly  for 
the  first  ten  days,  but  now  I  only  groan,  "O  Annie  !  " 
This  is  the  only  thing  I  do  not  like  in  the  water-treat- 
ment. To  be  waked  up  out  of  sleep  has  always  seemed 
to  me  a  crowning  insult  and  outrage  to  Nature. 

Then  comes  Maria,  my  good  bath-woman,  for  whom 


300 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


I  have  already  conceived  a  sentiment  nine  parts  venera- 
tion and  one  affection.  Of  course  I  can't  help  lovint 
her  a  little,  she  is  so  kind  and  energetic  in  my  behalf 
so  generally  good-natured  and  straightforward,  and  so 
sure  I  shall  get  to  be  a  giant  of  strength  and  health. 
But,  dear  me,  my  love  is  so  put  upon  by  my  awe ! 
This  woman,  of  like  passions  with  myself,  and  not  much 
older,  who  comes  three  times  a  day  into  my  presence  as 
the  representative  of  a  system  from  which  I  can  no  more 
escape  than  I  can  from  grim  death;  authoritative  as 
Dr.  Grully  himself;  no  more  mindful  of  my  naked  and 
helpless  body  than  was  the  mother  who  bore  me  when- 
ever I  needed  washing  or  whipping !  —  laughing  at  my 
screams ;  holding  her  old  snail  of  a  watch  in  her  hand, 
and  declaring  it  is  only  four  minutes  when  I  say  it  must 
be  ten,  — 0,  we  have  very  funny  times  together,  Maria 
and  1 1  She  little  dreams  how  my  soul  is  on  its  marrow- 
bones before  her.  When  she  says,  "  Indeed,  mum,  you 
mus'  n't,"  I  no  more  think  of  persisting  than  if  Parlia- 
ment were  at  her  back ;  and  when  she  looks  at  me  re- 
flectively as  she  ties  on  a  compress  over  the  "  upper 
stomach "  (did  you  know  we  had  more  than  one  ? 
I  keep  forgetting  to  ask  Dr.  Gully  if  camels  have  the 
most,  or  we)  I  feel  as  if  her  glance  reached  the  inmost 
secrets  of  my  bosom,  and  she  must  know  all  about  the 
lies  I  told,  and  never  got  found  out  in,  in  my  infancy. 
"  Maria,"  said  I,  "  did  you  ever  see  two  human  bodies 
alike  ?  "  one  day  when  I  felt  a  little  sentimental,  and 
was  thinking  more  than  ever  how  she  was  getting  pos- 
session of  me  in  all  this  wet  and  dry  scrubbing.  "  0 
Lor,  mum,  I  s'pose  not,  for  the  matter  of  that,  if  you 
looked  close.  But  they  're  all  alike  to  me.  Not  but 
what  I  'd  rather  rub  the  fat  ones  than  they  that 's  all 
bones,"  she  added,  reflectively,  with  a  half-chuckle  and 
sigh,  I  suppose  at  the  thought  of  some  recent  vertebrae 
that  she  had  scraped  her  hands  over.  Fourteen  years 
ghe  has  been  at  it,  this  faithful  soul ;  and  she  has  given 
out  and  away  so  much  of  her  own  animal  heat  and 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER.     301 

electric  vital  force  that  she  is  not  strong  as  she  was. 
My  own  theory  is,  that  half  the  benefit  comes  from  the 
splendid  rubbing  after  the  baths.  It  sets  every  nerve 
and  pore  in  your  skin  on  to  the  full  gallop  of  doing  their 
duty.  Well,  as  I  say,  this  getting  into  a  whole  or  a 
part  "pack  "  is  your  morning  interruption.  Then  you 
turn  over,  mummy  that  you  are,  and  look  out  and 
watch  the  dawn,  if  you  are  a  person  of  nerves,  with 
the  most  delicious  sense  of  being  under  no  more  respon- 
sibility about  yourself  for  the  next  hour  than  if  you 
were  one  of  the  fleecy  clouds  which  are  drifting  in  the 
wind.  If  you  are  of  adipose  make,  you  go  to  sleep 
again,  and  at  the  end  of  an  hour  have  another  inter- 
ruption, and  are  ordered  into  a  "  shallow,  "  that  is,  a 
long  bath-tub  with  six  inches  of  water  in  it, — at  65°,  if 
the  doctor  is  merciful ;  "  stone-cold,"  if  he  is  n't  I 
have  mine  at  65°.  Into  this  you  are  plunged,  smoking 
hot,  and  for  one  or  two  minutes  are  scrubbed  with 
towels ;  then  out,  and  rubbed  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 
more,  till  you  are  "  red  as  a  rose  is  she,"  by  the  author 
of  "  Cometh  up  as  a  Flower  " !  Then  you  hurry  on 
your  clothes,  and  take  a  walk  of  ten  or  fifteen  or  thirty 
minutes  before  breakfast.  This  was  the  one  thing  J 
thought  I  could  never  do ;  "  never  had  been  ahle  to"  as 
women  always  say  to  the  long-suffering  doctor,  who 
knows  a  thousand  times  better  than  they  do.  But  al- 
ready I  like  it  so  much  that  I  think  I  shall  never  again 
breakfast  on  food  before  I  have  had  a  little  breakfast  on 
air;  I  walk,  usually  on  the  piazza, — for  Holyrood  House 
has  a  fine  piazza  on  two  sides,  one  looking  off  eastward 
over  this  glorious  great  valley.  There  are  three  ravens 
which  always  come  at  this  time,  and  flap  and  bustle 
about  in  a  great  bare  linden-tree  in  the  garden.  They 
usually  arrive  about  five  minutes  after  I  do ;  never  have 
missed  a  morning  yet.  What  they  are  at,  I  can't  make 
out,  but  there  is  a  solemn  jollity  or  jolly  solemnity  about 
their  behavior  that  interests  me  mightily.  They  would 
do  for  Odin's  two  ravens,  "  Thought  and  Memory/'  if  J 


302     ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

were  bent  on  romantic  sentiment  at  that  hour  in  the 
morning. 

At  half  past  twelve,  noon,  just  as  I  get  well  under 
way  with  my  writing,  comes  second  interruption,  — 
Maria's  head,  peering  round  the  corner  of  my  parlor 
door,  and  "  If  you  please,  mum."  Then  it  is  either 
"  spinal  washing,"  that  is,  the  washing  of  the  whole 
length  of  the  spine  with  cold  water  for  four  minutes, — 
the  most  delicious  thing  of  all,  making  your  brain  feel 
as  suddenly  fine  and  clear  as  if  it  had  been  changed  in 
a  second  from  curds  to  spun  glass ;  or  a  "  lamp  bath," 
which  is,  sitting  in  a  wooden  chair,  rolled  up  in  several 
hundred-weight  of  blankets,  and  a  spirit-lamp  burning 
you  up  from  underneath,  till  you  are  drenched  in  per- 
spiration, and  then  out  into  a  "  shallow  "  of  cold  water, 
and  scrubbed  and  rubbed  as  in  the  morning.  This  is 
about  hke  a  Turkish  Bath. 

Or  a  rose  douche,  or  the  inch-and-a-half  douche,  or 
the  two  together  ! 

These  are  infinitely  surprising,  I  cannot  say  pleasing. 
I  took  them  but  twice ;  they  did  not  suit  me.  These 
cannot  be  taken  at  home.  You  go  to  the  bath-house, 
undress  in  one  cupboard,  then  step  into  another,  which 
is  set  with  mysterious  bars  and  pulleys  and  faucets,  re- 
minding one  of  Nuremberg  torture-dungeons.  You 
have  to  let  the  thing  on  yourself,  for  the  bath-woman 
would  get  wet  if  she  came  in.  Perhaps  you  tliink  you 
can  thereby  play  possum,  and  not  take  the  full  force  of 
the  water.  Ha !  there  is  a  small  round  hole  in  the  wall, 
between  inner  and  outer  cupboard,  and  there  glares,  like 
the  palpable  eye  of  Omniscience,  the  eye  of  Maria! 
"  Indeed,  mum,  you  must  stay  under  !  "  and  back  you 
bob  as  spry  and  guilty  as  if  you  'd  been  caught  steal- 
ing. If  you  think  you  know  what  the  real  duration  of 
a  minute  is,  you  're  mistaken,  unless  you  have  had  a 
stream  of  water  an  inch  and  a  half  in  diameter  fall  on 
your  back  and  loins  for  that  length  of  time,  and  you 
wanting  to  "stand  from  under,"  and  not  daring  ta 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRa  VELLER. 


303 


Bitting  before  a  daguerreotype  man  after  you  have 
"  assumed  an  easy  and  natural  expression"  is  less  than 
nothing  to  it.  Whichever  of  these  or  other  noon  treat- 
ments you  undergo  will  take,  all  told,  an  hour.  Then 
you  must  walk  from  half  an  hour  to  an  hour.  Then 
dinner.  Then  a  little  lounging  and  talking,  and  then, 
perhaps,  you  go  to  make  a  call  on  a  friend,  and  as  you 
are  just  in  the  midst  of  a  fine  talk,  she  says,  "Now,  I 
know,  as  you  are  a  patient  yourself,  you  will  excuse  me, 
but  my  bath-woman  has  come  for  me  to  take  a  foot- 
bath." "  0  dear !  "  say  you,  "  then  probably  my  wo- 
man is  at  this  moment  waiting  for  me."  Sure  enough, 
it  is  half  past  five  o'clock,  and  you  are  now  to  sit  for 
twelve  minutes  in  a  sitz-bath-tub  of  water  at  65°.  and 
then  have  a  little  more  scrubbing.  Then  you  dress  for 
the  evening,  eat  a  good  supper,  and  by  nine  o'clock  are 
so  sleepy,  you  wish  you  had  gone  to  bed  immediately 
after  the  sitz-bath,  and  made  that  second  undressing 
answer. 

This  is  an  average  routine  of  an  average  patient  at 
the  present  day  under  the  water-treatment.  The  old 
horrors  and  severities  are  done  away  with,  unless  it  may 
be  in  some  of  the  G-erman  establishments,  where  tor- 
tures are  still  in  vogue.  Also  the  diet  is  no  more  re- 
stricted than  it  ought  to  be  for  all  Christians  in  or  out 
of  water-treatment.  We  can  eat  anything  we  ought 
to  like,  and  we  do  eat.  Such  hunger  as  results  from 
it  all,  and  from  the  electric  Malvern  air !  We  misgive 
whether  a  pound  a  week  will  feed  us  much  longer. 

We  are  a  little  concerned  about  our  Christmas.  Our 
Enghsh  cronies  are  going  away  before  that  time,  and 
we  sha'  n't  be  asked  out  to  dinner,  we  know.  We  have 
bought  big  boughs  of  mistletoe  to  hang  up  over  our 
doors,  and  propose  to  kiss  each  other  under  it.  It  is 
an  uncanny,  scrambling-looking  thing.  I  am  a  little 
afraid  of  its  spidery  shape,  but  the  berries  are  lovely. 
If  a  white  currant  were  to  marry  a  snowberry,  their 
babies  would  be  like  these.    Now  do  you  kuow  how 


J04 


ENCYCLICALS  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 


they  look?  You  see  through  them,  and  you  don't; 
they  quiver,  and  yet  are  firm-planted  as  the  bough  it- 
self; they  are  uncanny  too,  like  the  rest. 

We  have  thought  of  putting  an  advertisement  in  the 
newspapers  to  the  following  effect :  — 

"  An  intelligent  American  family  would  like  to  spend 
the  Christmas  holidays  in  an  English  house,  where  the 
Christmas  customs  and  festivities  will  be  well  observed. 
No  objection  to  noblemen." 

But  I  fear  it  is  now  too  late.  Some  dear  English 
souls  in  London  want  us,  but  that  is  too  far.  So  we 
shall  console  ourselves  by  having  a  plum-pudding,  and 
trying  to  keep  little  Howie  from  realizing  that  he  is  all 
alone  for  a  hoUday.     Good  by. 


THE  EKD. 


Messrs.   Roberts  Brothers'   Publicatiom. 

Bits  of  Travel  at  Home 

By    H.    H. 

Square  i8mo.     Cloth,  red  edges.     Price  $1.50. 


/  "  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  is  too  well  and  favorably  known  to  need  introduction  to 
American  readers.  Her  poems  are  among  the  most  thoughtful,  vigorous,  and 
truly  imaginative  this  country  has  produced.  She  is  a  poet  to  the  manner  born, 
and  something  of  the  poetic  touch  and  quality  enters  into  her  prose  writings.  Her 
'Bits  of  Travel,'  published  years  ago,  gave  charming  accounts  of  places  and 
scenes  and  experiences  in  Europe.  Her  'Bits  of  Talk'  were  full  of  wise  and 
useful  suggestions  put  in  exceedingly  felicitous  ways;  they  had  the  sweetnes* 
and  bloom  of  life's  morning  with  the  insight  and  practicality  of  its  mid-day.  Het 
other  books  have  each  widened  her  literary  reputation.  The  little  volume  of  '  Bits 
of  Travel  at  Home '  is  in  her  best  vein.  It  tells  something  of  New  England,  but 
is  chiefly  devoted  to  California  and  Colorado.  She  both  describes  and  paints,  and 
she  intersperses  her  sketches  of  nature  with  cha.Tning  pictures  of  human  life  on 
the  frontier  and  in  the  new  communities  springing  up  there.  All  through  the 
closely  printed  book  are  delicate  little  biis  of  description,  cropping  up  like  flowers 
)n  a  meadow,  whicli  the  reader  lingers  over,  and  the  reviewer  longs  to  pluck  for  a 
bouquet  of  quotations.  It  is  a  charming  book  for  summer  reading,  and  will  make 
many  a  dull  day  brighter  by  its  vivacity  and  beauty.  She  gives  five  sunrises  from 
her  calendar  in  Colorado,  and  closes  her  volume  as  follows :  '  O  emperor,  wilt 
thou  not  build  an  eastern  wing  to  thy  palace  and  set  thy  bed  fronting  the  dawnl 
And  by  emperor  I  mean  simply  any  man  to  whom  it  is  |;iven  to  make  himself  a 
home  ;  and  Dy  palace  I  mean  any  house,  however  small,  m  which  love  dwells  and 
on  which  the  sun  can  shine.'  "  —  N.  V.  Express. 

"A  charming  volume.  Those  that  remember  —  and  who  that  read  the  book 
will  forget  —  the  grace,  the  freshness,  the  bright,  piquant  charm  of  the  first  Bits, 
will  be  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  read  a  new  volume  by  a  writer  remarkable 
for  her  humor,  her  quaintnes-s,  and  her  pathos.  Those  that  want  a  thoroughly 
enjoyable  and  entirely  fascinating  book  are  heartily  recommended  to  this."  —  C/«- 
(innaii  Times. 

"The  descriptions  of  American  scenery  in  this  volume  indicate  the  imagination 
of  a  poet,  the  eye  of  an  acute  observer  of  Nature,  the  hand  of  an  artist,  and  the 
heart  of  a  woman. 

"  H.  H.'s  choice  of  words  is  of  itself  a  study  of  color.  Her  picturesque  diction 
rivals  the  skill  of  the  painter,  and  presents  the  woods  and  waters  of  the  Great 
Wast  with  a  splendor  of  illustration  that  can  scarcely  be  surpassed  by  the  bright- 
est glow  of  the  canvas.  Her  intuitions  of  character  are  no  less  keen  than  hef 
^rceptions  of  Nature."  —  A^.  Y.  Tribune. 


Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.     When 
not  to  be  found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Boston. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

VERSES. 

By  H.    H. 

A  New  Enlarged  Edition.     Square  i8mo.     Uniform  with 
•'  Bits  of  Talk  "  and  "  Bits  of  Travel:'    Price  Si  oo. 


"The  volume  is  one  which  will  make  H.  H.  dear  to  all  the  lovers  of  tnie( 
|»etry.  Its  companionship  will  be  a  delight,  its  nobility  of  thought  and  of  purpose 
an  inspiration.  .  .  .  This  new  edition  comprises  not  only  the  former  little  book 
with  the  same  modest  title,  but  as  many  more  new  poems.  .  .  .  The  best  critics 
have  already  assigned  to  H.  H.  her  high  place  in  our  catalogue  of  authors.  She 
is,  without  doubt,  the  most  highly  intellectual  of  our  female  poets.  .  .  .  The  new 
poems,  while  not  inferior  to  the  others  in  point  of  literary  art,  have  in  them  more 
of  fervor  and  of  feeling  ;  more  of  that  lyric  sweetness  which  catches  the  attention 
and  makes  the  song  sing  itself  over  and  over  afterwards  in  the  remembering  brain. 
,  .  .  Some  of  the  new  poems  seem  among  the  noblest  H.  H.  has  ever  written. 
They  touch  the  high-water  mark  of  her  intellectual  power,  and  are  full,  besides,  ol 
passionate  and  tender  feeling.  Among  these  is  the  '  Funeral  March.'  "  —  N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"A  delightful  book  is  the  elegant  little  volume  of  'Verses,'  by  H.  H.,-« 
instinct  with  the  quality  of  the  finest  Christian  womanhood.  .  .  .  Some  wives  and 
mothers,  growing  sedate  with  losses  and  cares,  will  read  many  of  these  '  Verses' 
with  a  feeling  of  admiration  that  is  full  of  tenderness."  —  Advance. 

"  The  poems  of  this  lady  have  taken  a  place  in  public  estimation  perhaps 
higher  than  that  of  any  living  American  poetess.  .  .  .  They  are  the  thoughts  of 
a  delicate  and  refined  sensibility,  which  views  life  through  the  pure,  still  atmos- 
phere of  religious  fervor,  and  unites  all  thought  by  the  tender  talisman  of  love."  — 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  Since  the  days  of  poor  *  L.  E.  L.,'  no  woman  has  sailed  into  fame  under  a 
flag  inscribed  with  her  initials  only,  until  the  days  of '  H.  H.'  Here,  however, 
the  parallelism  ceases ;  for  the  fresh,  strong  beauty  which  pervades  these  '  Verses 
has  nothing  in  common  with  the  rather  lancruid  sweetness  of  the  earlier  writer. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  this  enlarged  volume,  double  the  size  of  that  origi- 
nally issued,  will  place  its  author  not  merely  above  all  American  poetesses  and  all 
living  English  poetesses,  but  above  all  women  who  have  ever  written  poetry  in 
the  English  language,  except  Mrs.  Browning  alone.  '  H.  H.'  has  not  yet  proved 
herself  equal  to  Mrs.  Browning  in  range  of  imagination  ;  but  in  strength  and  depth 
the  American  writer  is  quite  the  equal  of  the  English,  and  in  compactness  and 
Symmetry  altogether  her  superior."  —  T.  W.  H.  in  The  Index. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  Pub' 

UsherSf 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  Boston. 


Messrs.   Roberts   Brothers^  Publications. 

BITS    OF   TALK 

ABOUT   HOME   MATTERS. 

By  H.  H. 

Auiuor  of  •'  Verses^''  and  "  Bits  of  Travel''''    Squar* 
\%mo.     Cloth,  red  edges.    Price,  $i.oo. 


"A  New  Gospel  for  Mothers. — We  wish  that  e"ery  mother  In 
the  land  would  read  '  Bits  of  Talk  about  Home  Matters,'  by  H.  H.,  and 
that  they  would  read  it  thoughtfully.  The  latter  suggestion  is,  however, 
wholly  unnecessary  :  the  book  seizes  one's  thoughts  and  sympathies,  as 
only  startling  truths  presented  with  direct  earnestness  can  do.  .  .  .  The 
adoption  of  her  sentiments  would  wholly  change  the  atmosphere  in  many 
a  house  to  what  it  ought  to  be,  and  bring  almost  constant  sunshine  ana 
bliss  where  now  too  often  are  storm  and  misery."  —  Lawrence  (Kansas) 
y<rumal. 

"  In  the  little  book  entitled  '  Bits  of  Talk,'  by  H.  H.,  Messrs.  Roberts 
Brothers  have  given  to  the  world  an  uncommonly  useful  collection  of 
essays,  —  useful  certainly  to  all  parents,  and  likely  to  do  good  to  all  chil- 
dren. Other  people  have  doubtless  held  as  correct  views  on  the  subjects 
treated  here,  though  few  have  ever  advanced  them  ;  and  none  that  we  are 
aware  have  made  them  so  attractive  as  they  are  made  by  H.  H.'s  crisp 
and  sparkling  style-  No  one  opening  the  book,  even  though  without  rea- 
son for  special  interest  in  its  topics,  could,  after  a  glimpse  at  its  pages, 
lay  it  down  unread  ;  and  its  bright  and  witty  scintillations  will  f.x  many  a 
precept  and  establish  many  a  fact.  '  Bits  of  Talk  '  is  a  book  that  ought 
to  have  a  place  of  honor  in  every  household  ;  for  it  teaches,  not  only  the 
true  dignity  of  parentage,  but  of  childhood.  As  we  read  it,  we  laugh  and 
cry  with  the  author,  and  acknowledge  that,  since  the  child  is  father  of 
the  man,  in  being  the  champion  of  childhood,  she  is  the  champion  of  the 
whole  coming  race.  Great  is  the  rod,  but  H.  H.  is  not  its  prophet  1"  — 
M-t-  Harriet  I'rescott  Spofford,  in  Newburyport  Herald. 


Sold  everywhere.     Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  pub- 
Ushers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BosTort 


Messrs.   Robefts  Brothers'   Publications. 

NELLY'S  Silver  Mine. 

By   H.    H. 

With  Illustrations.     i6ino,  cloth.    Price  {{(1.50. 


"  The  sketches  of  life,  especially  of  its  odd  and  out-of-the-way  aspects,  by  H.  H. 
Uways  possess  so  vivid  a  reality  that  they  appear  more  like  the  actual  scenes  than 
any  copy  by  pencil  or  photograph.  They  form  a  series  of  living  pictures,  radiant 
Vfith  sunlight  and  fresh  as  morning  dew.  In  this  new  story  the  fruits  of  her  fine 
genius  are  of  Colorado  growth,  and  though  without  the  antique  flavor  of  her  recol- 
lections of  Rome  and  Venice,  are  as  delicious  to  the  taste  as  they  are  tempting  to 
the  eye,  and  afford  a  natural  feast  of  exquisite  quality."  —  N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  This  charming  little  book,  written  for  children's  entertainment  and  instruc- 
tion, is  equally  delightful  to  the  fathers  and  mothers.  It  is  life  in  New  England, 
and  the  racy  history  of  a  long  railway  journey  to  the  wilds  of  Colorado.  The 
children  are  neither  imps  nor  angels,  but  just  such  children  as  are  found  in  every 
happy  home.  The  pictures  are  so  graphically  drawn  that  we  feel  well  acquainted 
with  Rob  anj.  Nelly,  have  travelled  with  them  and  climbed  mountains  and  found 
silver  mines,  and  know  all  about  the  rude  life  made  beautiful  by  a  happy  family, 
and  can  say  of  Nelly,  with  their  German  neighbor,  Mr.  Kleesman,  '  Ach  well,  she 
haf  better  than  any  silver  mine  in  her  own  self-'  "  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

'In  'Nelly's  Silver  Mine'  Mrs.  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  has  given  us  a  true 
classic  for  the  nursery  and  the  school-room,  but  its  readers  will  not  be  confined  to 
any  locality.  Its  vivid  portraiture  of  Colorado  life  and  its  truth  to  child-nature 
give  it  a  charm  which  the  most  experienced  cannot  fail  to  feel.  It  will  stand  by 
the  side  of  Miss  Edgeworth  and  Mrs.  Barbauld  in  all  the  years  to  come."  —  Mrs. 
Caroline  H.  Doll. 

••  We  heartily  commend  the  book  for  its  healthy  spirit,  its  lively  narrative,  an<> 
ts  freedom  from  most  of  the  faults  of  books  for  children."  —  Atlantic  Monthly. 


Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.     When 
not  to  be  found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Boston. 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 

RAMONA:  A  Story. 

By  HELEN  JACKSON  (H.  H.). 
i2mo     Cloth.     Price  $1.50 


T^e  Atlantic  Monthly  says  of  the  author  that  she  is  "a  TlTinlllo 
in  literature."  and  that  the  story  "  is  one  of  the  most  artistia 
creations  of  American  literature."  Says  a  lady:  ''Tome  it  is  tho 
most  distinctive  piece  of  work  we  have  had  in  this  country  since 
'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,'  and  its  exquisite  finish  of  style  is  beyond  that 
classic."  '"The  boo'j.  is  truly  an  American  novel,'  says  the  Boston 
Advertiser-.  "  Ramoua  is  one  of  the  most  charming  creations  of 
modern  fiction,"  says  Charles  D  Warner  "  The  romance  of  the 
stcy   is   irresistibly   fascit.ating,"     says    The  Independent. 

"  The  best  novel  written  by  a  woman  since  George  Eliot  died,  as 
It  seems  to  me,  is  Mrs.  Jackson's  '  Ramona'  What  action  is  thare  • 
What  motion  I  How  entrainani  it  is  !  It  carties  ns  along  as  i( 
mounted  on  a  swiit  horse's  back,  from  beginning  to  end,  and  it  ;8 
Dniy  when  we  return  for  a  second  reading  that  we  can  appreciate 
the  fine  handling  of  the  characters,  and  especially  the  Spanish 
mother,  drawn  with  a  stroke  as  keen  and  'Irm  as  that  whidl 
oortrayed   George    Eliot's    '  Dorothea.'  "  —T.    H-'.  Higginson. 

Unsolicited  tribute  of  a  stranger,  a  iady  in  Wisconsin  :  — 

"  I  beg  leave  to  thank  you  with  an  intense  heartiness  for  youf 
piiblic  espousal  cf  the  cause  of  the  Indian.  In  your  'Century  of 
Dishoi'or '  you  showed  to  the  country  its  own  disgrace.  In 
'Ramona 'you  have  dealt  most  tenderly  with  the  Indians  as  men 
and  women.  Vou  have  shown  that  their  stoicism  is  not  indiffer- 
ence, that  their  squalor  is  not  aiways  of  their  own  choosing.  You 
have  shown  the  tender  grandeur  of  'heir  lov'?,  the  endurance  of 
their  constancy.  While,  by  '  Ramona,'  vou  h<ive  made  your  name 
immortal,  you  have  done  something  which  is  far  greater  You  are 
but  one:  they  are  many.  You  have  helped  those  who  cannot  hep 
themsel"es.  As  a  novel,  'Ramona'  must  stand  beside  'Komola,' 
both  as  regards  literary  excellence  and  the  portrayal  of  life's  deepest, 
most  vital,  most  solemn  interests.  T  think  tiotliing  in  literatute 
Miice  G'  Idsmith's  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield  '  equals  your  description  of 
the  flight  of  Ramona  and  Alessandro.  Such  delicate  pathos  and 
tender  joy,  such  pure  conception  of  life's  realities,  and  such  loftiness 
of  self-abnegating  love  !  How  much  richer  and  happier  the  world 
is  with  '  Ramona '  in  it  I  " 

* 

Sold  by  all  booksellers.    Mailed,  post-paid,  by  the  publishers, 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS,  Bostom 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers^  Publications. 

SONNETS  AND  LYRICS. 

By   HELEN  JACKSON. 

One  Volume.     Square  i6tno.     Cloth.     Uniform  with  Mrs.  yackson^s 
"Verses-"    Price,  $1.00.     While  cloth,  gilt,  price,  ti.%^ 


This  little  iTolumfc  is  instinct  with  the  vitality  of  the  large-hearted  and  large- 
minded  woman  whose  last  work  it  contains.  No  verse  could  be  further  removed 
from  the  self-consciousness  and  artifice  of  what  is  sometimes  known  as  the  "'  art 
school ;  "  and,  on  the  other  hand,  no  verse  could  be  more  entirely  free  from  the 
unregulated  overflow  of  emotion.  ...  It  is  sound  in  feeling  and  in  art ;  ther* 
is  a  wholesome,  healthful  tone  running  through  the  whole  of  it,  from  thos^  earli- 
est lines  published  in  the  "  Nation,"  under  the  title,  so  full  of  meaning  to  her, 
"  Lifted  Over,"  to  that  last  splendid  address  to  death  in  "  Habeas  Corpus," 
written  on  one  of  the  last  days  of  her  conscious  life.  ...  In  the  verse  contained 
in  this  latest  volume  there  is  the  same  full-pulsed  love  for  all  things  beautiful : 
for  mountains  and  clouds,  for  blue  skies  and  wide  seas,  for  the  wild-flowera 
hidden  among  the  recesses  of  the  rocks,  and  for  the  great  stars  that,  for  human 
eyes  at  least,  mark  the  boundary  lines  of  the  universe.  There  is  no  aspect  of  tht 
natural  world  from  which  Mrs.  Jackson's  large  and  masterful  nature  turned 
away  with  fear  or  repulsion.  Winter  stirs  her  imagination  no  less  than  summer, 
and  in  a  sonnet  on  "  January  "  she  invokes  it  in  lines  that  are  full  of  deep  per- 
ception of  the  beauty  that  lies  hidden  in  its  heart.  —  Christian  Union. 

The  spirit  of  the  little  book  in  which  are  brought  together  the  last  of  her 
hitherto  uncollected  pieces  is  singularly  gentle  and  winning,  and  it  will  strengthen 
the  affection  in  which  the  memory  of  "  H.  H."  is  cherished  by  many  hearts.  -• 
New  York  Tribtene. 


Sold  by   all  booksellers.       Mailed,   post-paid,    by   tht 
fublisherSy 

ROBERTS    BROTHERS,    Boston 


„[JC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 


A     000  304  609 


